Children Afraid of the Night
by Bananafish451
Summary: Months after his father's death, Chuck has alienated himself from everyone on the UES, and most notably from Blair. Blair's friends come up with a plan to set him straight. Chuck/Blair, some Dan/Serena. Other pairings are possible. Please review!
1. Chapter 1: Lost in a Haunted Wood

Faces along the bar

Cling to their average day:

The lights must never go out,

The music must always play,

All the conventions conspire

To make this fort assume

The furniture of home;

Lest we should see where we are,

Lost in a haunted wood,

Children afraid of the night

Who have never been happy or good.

--W.H. Auden, SEPTEMBER 1, 1939

"Would you dance with me, Miss Waldorf?"

Serena saw her friend jump a little in her seat, saw her eyes move up slowly and try to focus on the hand being proffered. Her eyes continued their upward path, noted abstractedly that the hand was attached to an arm, and that the arm belonged to a young man. She closed her eyes briefly, as if too exhausted to keep them open. They looked bruised, so dark were the shadows around them. Serena winced.

"Yes, I suppose," came Blair's small voice.

"I think she's too tired right now—" began Serena.

"No," Blair stood up and shook out her curls, "I'm fine." She took his arm and followed him to the dance floor, leaving Serena alone to nurse her drink and sigh worriedly. She followed Blair's progress across the dance floor with her eyes, frowning as she observed how small and frail Blair looked in the arms of the stranger, her face wan and tearstained. She had wound her scarecrow arms around the man's back, as if he were all that was keeping her from falling over. He probably was.

Blair had always been able to mask her unhappiness with her trademark smile and fake laugh; she put up a façade that was a sort of armor against the world. Serena had always admired this ability. She herself couldn't help but wear her heart on her sleeve. But sometime in the past few months Blair had lost that self-possession and control, and her visible vulnerability frightened Serena perhaps more than anything ever had. "Oh, B, what am I going to do with you?" She asked herself sadly.

She toyed idly with the diamond bracelet she wore on her left wrist. It was very pretty, she thought, looking at it. She usually forgot to wear it out, but it went well with her dress today. Aaron had given it to her a few weeks ago as a sort of apology for the huge fight they had had over Blair. They argued about Blair a lot, about how Serena spent more time with her than she spent with Aaron. _Blair comes first for me now, _she thought fiercely, still fingering the bracelet. _No boyfriend will ever get between my best friend and me ever again._

Her cell phone began to ring, shattering her train of thought. When she saw the name on the screen her eyes lit up in anger.

"Chuck. To what do I owe this dubious pleasure?"

She heard laughter on the other line. "I just wanted to see how my favorite sister is doing."

"I thought you made it clear that you don't consider me to be family," Serena snapped.

"Oh no, I only ever wanted to disown Eric. He's so tedious. But I would never give up a hot sister."

"Ew, Chuck."

"You should be flattered, Serena."

"What? That's disgusting, and incestuous…"

"Anyway," Chuck cut in, "I was hoping you could tell me who precisely is that jackass Waldorf is practically having sex with on the dance floor."

"Her new boyfriend," returned Serena smugly. "Wait—you're here right now? Where are you?" She craned her neck, looking for him, and finally saw him seated at the bar. Of course. Sitting in his lap was a leggy blonde who appeared to be sticking her tongue in his ear. Chuck smirked at her across the room and raised a glass as if to toast her.

"Stupid asshole," Serena muttered.

"This new boyfriend seems exactly her type, don't you think?" drawled Chuck into the phone. "Smarmy, scrawny, pimply, probably a virgin—"

"Jealous?"

Chuck sniggered derisively. "I'm not jealous."

Serena shifted the phone to her other ear. "I see I should have bought you a dictionary for Christmas."

Chuck blithely ignored her. "'Jealousy' is hardly the word I would use to characterize my feelings on the subject. Perhaps 'disgust' or 'revulsion' or 'nausea'…"

"There's nothing revolting about him," said Serena irritably, "He's a very good-looking boy."

"It seems _you're _the one who needs a dictionary."

"Ha."

"You'll find 'dumb blonde' in the 'D' section I believe. That comes after 'C', which is the third letter in the alphabet, in case you were confused."

"Fuck you, Chuck. "

"Oh, Serena, I love it when we banter."

"Ugh!" Serena threw her arms up in the air. "I can't even talk to you! I'm seriously fighting the urge to go over to that bar right now and throttle you with my bare hands."

"I love it when you get so angry and passionate, sis. It gives me a tingly, warm feeling right in my—"

Serena hung up the phone. She pointedly turned her back so she could not see Chuck anymore and threw back the rest of her cocktail. Her lips twitched in anger as a bit of alcohol dribbled out of her mouth and she wiped it off with a napkin.

"Serena—" she felt a cool hand against her back.

"Don't fuck with me, Chuck," she spat out, and whirled around. She found herself staring up at Dan Humphrey's shocked face.

"Oh, Dan," she said weakly. "I didn't know you were there."

"Apparently," said Dan. "You thought I was Chuck?"

"Sorry," smiled Serena awkwardly. "Anyways, how have you been lately? I feel like I haven't seen you in weeks."

"Oh. Yeah." Dan avoided eye contact, staring at his shoes. "I guess it's sort of weird, now that you're with Aaron…"

"Dan—"

But Dan clearly didn't want to have this conversation, and hurriedly interrupted,

"Has Chuck been bothering you?"

"Yes—no; it doesn't matter. I'm used to it." She sighed and rubbed her face distractedly with her arm. "I'm just worried about Blair. And I hate him."

"What the hell happened between them, anyway?"

"God, I don't even know. When he came back from Bangkok he had this huge breakdown, and he must have been really awful to Blair, because she stopped trying to help him. As far as I know they haven't talked ever since."

"They haven't spoken at all, in three months?" asked Dan incredulously.

"No," Serena shook her head miserably. "And she's depressed, and weak, like nothing I've ever seen before."

"She's been through worse with Nate, Serena, hasn't she? I'm sure that comparatively this isn't that big a deal—"

"You don't know her like I do!" protested Serena, prodding him angrily in the chest. "She's worse now than she was when she wanted to run away to France and never show her face again in public!"

"But she's here at a fancy party, dancing with some blue-blood," pointed out Dan.

"I think she's just too weak to run away this time. She doesn't even have enough will-power to do that."

"Isn't there anything you could do to cheer her up?"

Serena snorted derisively. "You clearly don't understand the gravity of the situation."

Dan caught a glimpse of Blair on the dance floor; her lips were pale and cracked and trembling, her arms and legs much thinner than he remembered. She was bleary-eyed and her normally lustrous hair hung in limp, lifeless curls. She was still pretty, of course, objectively she always would be—but she had obviously changed. She was no longer the sparkling, vivacious girl he remembered, the one who sneered, who glared, who hurled insults at him energetically, who worked tirelessly on her appearance and moved with purpose. Dan had never liked her very much but he felt a sudden stab of pity, followed by a sharp anger towards Chuck that actually surprised him with its intensity.

He turned back to Serena, feeling very stupid. "I haven't been a good friend to you," he confessed. "I was mad at you for going to Buenos Aires with Aaron, and since then I haven't been paying attention—"

"It's ok, Dan," said Serena, "Blair isn't your problem."

"But she is _your _problem. And I care about you. I would help her if I could."

Serena sighed. "She needs to move on. But she can't do that, because the thing with Chuck still isn't resolved."

"I don't get it," protested Dan, "he doesn't talk to her, he flaunts other women in front of her—"

"I don't think that's enough to convince her fully that he doesn't care anymore."

"How could she possibly still think—"

"Chuck is…complicated. To be honest, I think he might still have feelings for her. But he's an emotionally stunted bastard and he'll never admit it again, not after this."

"So what the hell is Blair hoping will happen?"

"I don't know, Dan," sighed Serena, "the same thing that happened the first time. After the Tuscany disaster, when he apologized endlessly and chased her for months."

"I don't understand their relationship," muttered Dan darkly. "She must be a masochist."

Serena nodded tersely and put down her glass, which was now empty. She glanced over at Chuck, who was by now kissing the blonde who had been sitting in his lap before, his hand inching up under her dress. She glared at him, but of course he couldn't see her. She turned around and saw that sure enough, Blair was watching him too, with a dead look in her eyes. Serena felt a pang at her heart.

"This. Is. Bullshit." she ground out. She set off towards the bar, her eyes shooting off sparks, and Dan ran after her, yelling, "What are you doing?"

Serena marched right up to the bar, inches away from Chuck and the unknown woman, and slammed her drink down onto the table. Chuck detached himself from the girl's lips and looked up, startled.

"Could I have another drink, please?" she addressed the bartender.

"Sure," said the bartender nervously, "what would you like?"

"A Manhattan. Thanks."

"Serena," growled Chuck, his eyes narrowing, "if you wouldn't mind not invading my personal space…" He saw Dan and his eyes narrowed further. "Humphrey," he spat.

"Bass," Dan returned coolly.

"I thought you were done slumming it in Brooklyn, Serena," sneered Chuck. "I guess I overestimated you."

"And who is your lovely friend, Chuck? I don't believe we've met?" inquired Dan.

Chuck, who had obviously forgotten her name, merely glowered.

The girl spun around in his arms to glare at him. "Ce-ci-li-a," she hissed.

"Cecilia," Chuck repeated, smirking a bit. Cecilia stood up and straightened her dress and left in a huff, her heels clicking angrily against the polished floor. Chuck barely seemed to notice, however. He was staring very hard at something beyond Dan and Serena, and he had risen to his feet. The two looked around and saw Blair, ashen-faced and hugging herself with her arms, approaching slowly.

"What's going on?" she asked faintly.

Dan felt a ringing in his ears. His senses sharpened in anticipation. The whole universe seemed to narrow down to Chuck and Blair, Blair and Chuck; Dan and Serena were only spectators. The bar, the dance floor, the music, the sound of voices, all melted away, all became irrelevant. Dan could only see Blair with her gray cheeks and her skeletal frame, Blair who was no longer an ice queen. Trembling in her blue dress as if before a harsh wind she resembled nothing so much as a flower caught in the first frost of winter. And there was Chuck, his eyes bright with malice, and perhaps with something else too. Dan saw him clench his fists and take a breath.

"I was about to fuck a hot girl, but your sidekick and her low-rent boyfriend interfered," he snarled.

Blair winced perceptively and stepped a bit closer. "Chuck, please, let's not do this anymore—"

"Not do what anymore?"

"Stop pretending to hate me! I know on some level you care—"

"You're delusional, Waldorf," said Chuck firmly. "I _don't _care. I never have, and I never will."

For a moment all four of them were silent.

"You once said to me," said Blair softly, hugging herself closer, "that you didn't want me anymore, and that you couldn't see why anyone would."

"I remember," nodded Chuck, not taking his eyes off her face. He continued slowly, deliberately. "_Rode hard and put away wet._ I haven't forgotten."

Serena gasped in horror.

"No, no." Blair pressed her palms against her eyes for a moment, hard. Her whole body was shaking by this point.

"You're just trying to push me away. You _did _want me. You almost told me you loved me—"

"I might have thought it was possible, for a while; but eventually I realized I only wanted you because you had been off-limits. Nate's girl. That's what made it exciting."

"I wasn't off-limits after Tuscany," whispered Blair. "Nate and I were ancient history by then."

Chuck shrugged. "I guess the thrill hadn't worn off yet. I like the chase. But I never really wanted the prize."

Blair's face crumpled, then, and she sank onto a barstool, finally looking away from him. Tears swam in her eyes.

Before Dan could stop her, Serena smacked Chuck across the face. Chuck didn't look surprised, only turned away and said, his back to Blair, "I hope we understand each other now." He massaged his stinging cheek while waiting for an answer.

Blair let out a small, choking sound from where she sat at the bar; Chuck seemed to hear it, because his shoulders tensed and he walked away without looking back.

"Oh, God, Blair—" Serena threw her arms around Blair, who was sobbing openly, huge, dry sobs that shook her to the core.

They stayed that way for a while; Serena, livid, holding the crying girl closely, Dan standing a few feet away, his face blank. He had never known Chuck could be capable of such cruelty. _Why?_ He thought numbly, _why would he say such things? Does he want her to stay away from him that badly? Can he really hate her so much? _He remembered how Chuck's eyes had grown suspiciously bright when he said those terrible words, how his shoulders shook when he turned away. Somehow, he didn't think so.

"I will get him for this," said Serena wildly, staring at Dan over Blair's shoulder. "I will put an end to this if it's the last thing I do." She stomped her little foot and shook back her golden mane angrily, like a lioness hell-bent on protecting her young. Dan could not help but look at her admiringly, and a memory resurfaced, one of a time rather long ago when he was happy:

"_I love you because you can be with someone like me, and still be best friends with someone like Blair."_

"_Yeah, well, I try to be…"_

"_I know you do. And that's not easy. But you never give up on her. _That_ is how amazing you are."_

Dan was very still for a couple of moments, and then he turned towards her and said, "Serena, I think I have an idea."


	2. Chapter 2: Pack Up the Moon

**Chapter Two: Pack up the Moon **

He was my North, my South, my East and West,

My working week and my Sunday rest,

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song,

I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now, put out every one;

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.

For nothing now can ever come to any good.

--W.H. Auden, _Funeral Blues_

"Blair." Serena's voice seemed to come from miles away.

It echoed in her head, ricocheted and repeated. She heard it so many times she wondered if after all she had imagined it. _Blair, Blair, Blair…Blair, Blair…_

"Blair!" This time it was louder and sharper, cutting through the fog in her head, and Blair looked up. She became aware of Serena's worried face hovering above her, so close to her own; her golden curls cascaded down like a curtain, shielding Blair from the world.

"What happened?" she croaked.

"I think you passed out," said Serena, biting her lip. Her eyes were red and her lashes glistened with wetness.

_Are those tears for my sake? _thought Blair hazily. _How sad for Serena…she shouldn't ruin her perfect make-up. _Blair rolled her head back against the floor._ She's normally so pretty and happy. Always the prettiest. _She was having trouble forming coherent thoughts. They were fleeting and disturbed, like when a little boy runs towards a flock of pigeons in the plaza, and they fly up into the air flapping their wings and screeching feverishly.

"I think I'm…" she started slowly, slurring the words, "I think I'm fine, S."

If anything, Serena seemed more alarmed than before. Blair gradually became aware of other noises; chairs being scraped back as people got to their feet around her, a somewhat familiar voice asking Serena if he should try picking her up now.

_Oh no,_ Blair grimaced, her eyes still closed, _Humphrey's going to rescue me._ As soon as this had occurred to her, she caught her breath.

_Why do I need to be rescued?_ She lay as if paralyzed a few moments longer, and then it came back in a flash: the throbbing music, the bar, the skinny blonde bitch (called Cecilia, apparently), Dan and Serena's horrified faces, and him.

She stiffened in Serena's arms let out a whimper of pain. And then she sank back into darkness.

***

"Hey, man," yelled Nate as he pounded the door, "Open up."

"Go away," came a muffled voice from inside.

"No. Chuck, come on. I need to talk to you." He slammed his fist into the door even harder. Finally it swung open.

"What the hell do you want, Archibald?" Chuck hissed. He cut a frightening figure, standing in the doorway with his hair disheveled, his eyes almost burning a hole into Nate's skull, his lips curled back in a snarl. He was practically foaming at the mouth. His fingers were curled so tightly around a glass of whiskey they were white and bloodless; his shirt looked torn as if he had tried to rip it off his own body in a fit of anger, and his silhouette was dark and menacing against the light from his room. He looked like a wild animal released from his cage. If Nate didn't know him—hadn't been his best friend practically since birth—he would have run away screaming. In fact, it took every fiber of his being to keep from running away screaming. He closed his eyes briefly, took in a deep breath, and thought to himself, _you can do this. You can do this. Be a man._ He opened his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest.

"I heard about what happened tonight…about what happened—" he winced in advance—"with Blair."

"I TOLD YOU NOT TO SAY HER NAME IN FRONT OF ME," erupted Chuck, pushing Nate so hard that his shoulder slammed painfully into the wall. "I thought I was VERY fucking clear when I told you—"

"No, Chuck," ground out Nate in-between gasps of pain, "we need to talk about this—"

Chuck hurled the half-empty glass into the wall and it shattered into a million pieces, spraying them both with whiskey and with tiny shards of glass.

"JESUS," glared Nate, as he massaged his injured shoulder. "Get a fucking grip."

"Get the hell out of my house," growled Chuck, reaching for the doorknob as if threatening to slam the door in Nate's face.

"Fine." Nate threw his hands up in the air and marched off. He spun around before he reached the end of the hallway.

"Did you know she _passed out?" _he spat, still rubbing his shoulder.

"What?" Chuck froze.

"After you left. I don't know what you said but it was so bad she started hyperventilating and she _fainted _a few seconds later_. _Humphrey had to carry her home." Nate was seething.

After a moment, Chuck asked, "How do you know this?"

Nate let out a bleak, short laugh. "Gossip Girl, of course."

Chuck didn't appear to have anything to say to this, so Nate continued.

"I'm sick of your bullshit." Chuck glanced up at him for a moment, and then looked away again. "I'm sick and tired—I've put up with a lot. You can be an ass to me, I can take it. But Blair—"

"Oh," said Chuck softly. "Of course. You want to protect Blair."

"Yes," sputtered Nate, "of course I do—she's my best friend."

Chuck's eyes grew cold. "How touching."

Nate paled, and shook with rage. "You hurt her—"

"You mean I ruined her." Chuck's voice was still low and soft. "I ruined her for you. She was Nate Archibald's pristine virgin princess until I got my dirty hands on her—"

"How dare you," cried Nate, "try to make this about that?"

"Because that's what it's about," Chuck hissed, "your newfound 'friendship' with Waldorf. Revenge."

"Revenge?" echoed Nate incredulously.

"You hated that she chose me," said Chuck. "Now it's you. She comes crying to you whenever she needs someone, so that you can comfort her. Tell me, Nate, where were you all those years that she needed you, when you actually had the right to do that?"

"I wasn't a good boyfriend," conceded Nate, his voice tremulous, "but I'm trying to make up for it now—"

"Admit it, Archibald," Chuck spat, "you love comforting Blair, telling her how much she doesn't need me, how I don't deserve her, how you two will get along just fine without Chuck Bass—"

Nate ground his teeth. "_I did not take her away from you. _You pushed her away. Intentionally, I might add. Why did you do that, anyway, huh, Bass?"

Chuck's eyes glittered dangerously; his mouth pressed into a thin, hard line.

"_Get out_," he said, and finally slammed the door.

Nate got out. But before he left, his rage took over and he screamed at the closed door, "This is it, Bass—we're _over. _This time for real. I'm fucking done."

There was no response, of course. Nate went home.

Except that standing outside his door were perhaps the two people he least expected to see. "Serena?" he asked. "Dan? What are you doing here?"

"We need to talk to you about something," said Serena, tossing back her hair. "Give me your keys." Nate handed them to her numbly. She opened the door and ushered them both inside.

"It's about Blair," Dan began, but Nate cut him off.

"Where is she right now?"

"She's asleep—Dorota's taking care of her," sighed Serena.

"God," said Nate angrily, "Chuck can't keep doing this to her—"

"We agree," nodded Serena, "which is why we came up with a plan."

"Oh?"

"You're going to think it's crazy," Dan warned, "but desperate times…."

"Fine," said Nate shortly, "I'll agree to anything, as long as it involves punishing Chuck Bass."

"Oh," Serena laughed, "I think we can guarantee that it does."


	3. Chapter 3: What All Schoolchildren Learn

**Chapter Three: What All Schoolchildren Learn**

Author's note: Thank you so very much to all of those who reviewed! Reviews are like wonderful Christmas presents; please please keep it up! I do actually try to incorporate your suggestions, because I'm still not very clear on where I'm going with this story.

Happy holidays!

---

I and the public know

What all schoolchildren learn,

Those to whom evil is done

Do evil in return.

--W.H. Auden, SEPTEMBER 1, 1939

---

"That's…crazy." Nate shook his head, bewildered. His mouth was dry. "Insane."

Serena sighed. "I know, Nate, but—"

"What if it backfires?" Nate demanded. "You don't know how Chuck will react if he's provoked like that—there's no way to really know that." He paused. "He's dangerous. You don't even know…"

"Yes, we do," interrupted Serena in an annoyed voice, "I think it's safe to say we've been fully exposed to his evil side. If he even has any other sides."

Nate ran his hand wildly through his hair so that it stuck up at the ends. He sank down onto a sofa. "No, Serena, I don't think I can do it. You haven't thought this through. It's…risky."

"It could work," Serena snapped. "We need to try it. They're in an emotionally abusive relationship. Non-relationship. Whatever. It's an endless cycle—he won't talk to her, she tries to confront him, he insults her in public, she cries, she makes herself sick—"

"I know," protested Nate, "but—"

"She's wasting away." Serena placed her hands on her hips and stared him down. "She can't take it anymore!" Her eyes flashed. She took in a deep breath and continued, her voice forcibly calm: "We need to break the pattern. We need something to jolt Chuck—she's not going to change her behavior on her own, she's too weak." She saw Nate's eyes widen, saw him nod as he acknowledged the truth of the statement. "We need to provoke him if we want anything to change at all. This is the way of doing it that we came up with. If not this, we need to do something just as bad."

Nate sat and thought about it for a minute. "It's a really sketchy plan," he opined.

"We know that," asserted Dan hastily, "it's a work in progress."

"Good," said Nate firmly, "I'm only doing it if I get a say in how it all goes down."

Dan smiled. "Don't worry man, we have plenty of time for planning."

Serena threw her arms around Nate ecstatically and almost squealed. "So you're in? You're definitely in?"

"I guess," said Nate doubtfully, awkwardly patting her on the back.

"I think that calls for a drink!" said Dan loudly, getting to his feet and offering a hand to Nate, who was still entangled in Serena's arms. He glanced around the room. "Do you have a liquor cabinet or something in here?"

Half an hour later the three of them were sitting on the floor, Serena cradling a half-empty bottle in her arm; Nate punched her lightly in the shoulder and told her to 'stop hogging the whiskey.'

"Shots, anyone?" asked Dan, pushing shot-glasses towards Nate and Serena. He downed one himself.

"Since when do you drink, Dan?" inquired Nate with a grin.

"Oh," said Dan, waving his arm expansively, "it's you upper-east-siders…all your bad habits have rubbed off on me."

"We have plenty of bad habits," Nate agreed.

"Natie, for instance," giggled Serena, "has this bad habit of never quite being able to make up his mind about which girl he likes. He likes them all! He can't choose." She tittered.

Nate had the grace to blush a bit. "That's not true!"

"Oh, please." Serena rolled her eyes. "Just this past year you've been in love with countless girls. First Blair, then me, then Blair again, then Vanessa, then that creepy old woman over the summer, then Jenny, then Vanessa again.." she paused thoughtfully. "Actually, are you still with Vanessa? Or back with Jenny? It's so hard to keep track."

Nate blushed further. "I've been dating Vanessa sort of on-and-off….off this time for a while. I've sort of been dating a few different girls."

Serena snorted.

"Not Jenny, though, right?" asked Dan.

"No."

"Good," said Dan forcefully.

"Oh no," Serena rolled her eyes again, this time at Dan. "Let's please stay away from protective-older-brother territory."

"Good idea," Nate said eagerly. "New topic."

"I'm pretty sure Aaron will break up with me when he finds out he won't see me at all during Christmas break," Serena offered.

"Really?" Nate cocked an eyebrow.

"Do we really need to talk about Aaron?" Dan whined.

"Shut up, Dan," said Nate. "Will he really mind so much, Serena? Is there anything we can do about it? Maybe he could come with us…"

Dan looked up in alarm.

"No," Serena shook her head, "that really won't be necessary." She giggled a bit in spite of herself. "That would be awful. None of you like him."

"I don't really know him," said Nate neutrally. Dan didn't say anything.

"Honestly, guys, I don't really care. I was thinking of breaking it off anyway."

"Why?" asked Nate.

"I don't know," sighed Serena. "I don't think we really have much in common. We run out of things to talk about so easily. And we fight a lot. About Blair, mainly. He overheard her call him a 'greasy-haired wannabe artist' once, so he doesn't like her, and doesn't like how much time I spend with her." She stared down into her glass. "And to be honest, I don't enjoy spending time with him as much as I used to."

Dan grinned suddenly as he poured himself another shot of whiskey.

"Anyway," said Serena, flicking her hair, "we have more important things to discuss right now. Are we ready for phase one?"

******

"Wake up, Miss Blair. Miss Blair—"

"Ugh, Dorota, leave me alone," Blair frowned, her eyes still closed, and nestled back into her pillow.

"Miss Blair, your friends come to visit you."

"Blair—" came Serena's voice.

"What?" Blair sat up in bed, stifling a yawn. "Is that you, Serena? For god's sake, it's six-thirty a.m.—"

"And me," said Nate, stepping into the room along with Serena.

"Nate?" Blair was shocked.

"Brace yourself," said Serena in an amused voice, "you have a third guest. Try to refrain from screaming."

Dan stepped through the doorway cautiously. "Morning, Blair."

Dorota smiled and turned to leave, saying, "I leave you alone." The door closed behind her.

Blair stared at Dan for a moment, her mouth hanging slightly open. "Ugh," she finally said in disgust, and threw her pillow at him. She glared at her friend, who was laughing at her expression. "Why the hell is Humphrey in my _bedroom, _Serena?"

The pillow bounced off Dan harmlessly, and he appeared to be only mildly annoyed. "Nate and I will go downstairs and wait while you guys get ready," he said to Serena, and the boys left.

"Serena, what—?"

"Get dressed, B," said Serena firmly, throwing open her closet. "I'm going to help you pack."

"Why?" Blair demanded.

"Because we're going to France."

Blair rubbed her eyes vigorously, wondering if this was all just a very strange dream.

"What drugs are you on, Serena?"

Serena chuckled. Blair had not seen her in this good a mood in a long time.

"None at the moment," she said breezily, pulling aside the curtains so that early morning sunshine streamed into the room. She reached into a bag she had slung over her shoulder. Out came a pair of gray sweatpants and a shapeless black sweater, which she tossed onto Blair's bed.

Blair glanced down at them and wrinkled her nose. "I hope you're not expecting me to wear _that." _She pushed the offensive items of clothing off her bed with her foot.

Serena promptly picked them up and threw them at Blair's head.

"Hey," Blair sputtered, fixing her mussed hair and looking indignant. "Blair Waldorf would never _ever_ don such a ghastly ensemble. You should be ashamed of yourself."

"We're trying to be incognito_," _said Serena absently, taking items out of Blair's closet and piling them on the bed. Blair noted that Serena herself was dressed discreetly in cheap-looking jeans and a baggy sweater that sported the NYU logo; her distinctive golden mane was tied up in a severe bun.

"Why the hell are we surreptitiously boarding a plane to France anyway?"

"The three of us thought it'd be a nice way to spend the holidays," said Serena. "Christmas in France. What do you think?"

"Yeah, that does sound nice," acknowledged Blair, nodding slowly—and then suddenly paused. "Wait. The _three _of us?! Surely you don't mean—"

"Dan's coming too," Serena clarified. She got on her knees to zip open the empty suitcase she had brought with her, trying to suppress a grin.

"WHAT?" Blair's face was almost comical. "_Why?!"_

"I invited him," said Serena. "Don't worry. It'll be fun."

Blair's eyes narrowed. "Serena, are you and Humphrey—"

"No," said Serena quickly. "We're just friends."

Blair still looked suspicious.

"Look, we need another guy to come along, or Nate will go crazy by himself with two girls. And Dan's a friend of mine, and he and Nate are friends too."

Blair did not seem persuaded by this reasoning. "Why this sudden mad dash to the airport anyway? I thought we were spending Christmas in New York with family…"

"Sort of a last minute idea," said Serena evasively. "Your mom is fine with it, I already talked to her."

"Serena, you can't just—" Blair made a frustrated gesture, "sweep in here and order me to go to France, I have holiday plans—"

"No, you don't really, B," Serena corrected as she pulled Blair out of bed. "You didn't make plans this year, remember? You've been…distracted." She alluded gently to Blair's extended depression and was pleased when it had the desired effect.

"I guess you're right," said Blair awkwardly, blushing slightly. "And it would be nice to get away for a while…maybe this is a good idea," she conceded, finally. Serena smiled and clapped her hands.

"I wish you'd mentioned it to me sooner, though," said Blair resentfully. "It's not fun to be woken at the crack of dawn and have Cabbage Patch shoved in your face."

"Oh, you'll get used to him."

"I'll only come if you withdraw his invitation," said Blair mutinously.

"You're both coming," asserted Serena, pushing Blair towards the wardrobe. "Now get dressed." She had a feeling that if Blair were her usual self she would have put up a much bigger fight, and she took a moment to appreciate the unexpected silver lining she had discovered. Blair seemed to have reached a similar conclusion because she turned around to fix Serena with an impotent glare.

"Come on, B, we haven't got all day; flight's at nine thirty," she smiled sweetly.

Blair held up the sweater and sweatpants to the mirror. "I can't believe you're making me put this on," her lip curled in disgust. "It's truly heinous. My mother would kill herself if she saw me wearing it."

Serena rolled her eyes. "We need to be discreet if we want to avoid Gossip Girl."

"Fine," snapped Blair, pulling on the sweater so that it engulfed her tiny frame. It made her already pale skin even paler in contrast to the black wool, and her wrists protruded from the baggy sleeves looking oddly frail and vulnerable. There were blue circles under her eyes.

"Have you—" she began hesitantly, "have you told anyone else that we're going?"

Serena thought she knew what Blair meant and hugged her from behind, placing her chin on her friend's shoulder. She addressed Blair's face in the mirror.

"No," she said softly, "just the parents. And Eric and Jenny."

"Good," said Blair, freeing herself from Serena's embrace and reaching for the sweatpants, "I want him to be surprised." She avoided looking at Serena. "Hopefully it'll be an unpleasant surprise."

Serena smiled encouragingly. "Oh, I'm sure it will be."


	4. Chapter 4: The Art of Losing

**Author's note: **This chapter—which is fairly short—is also quite dark. It's told from Blair's perspective, which I haven't really written yet (Serena, Dan and Nate simply aren't as dark). Don't read if that's not your thing.

And again, thank you for the reviews! Keep them coming. 

**One Art**

The art of losing isn't hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.

The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:

places, and names, and where it was you meant

to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or

next-to-last, of three loved houses went.

The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.

I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture

I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident

the art of losing's not too hard to master

though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

--Elizabeth Bishop

----

The first time she did it was the day she woke up alone and found that sad note on her pillow. Afterwards she felt numb, and then horrified, and then all sensations were swallowed up in a consuming, pervasive guilt. The guilt lasted for days, heavy in her stomach, at the back of her throat. She felt it every time she sat down for a meal with Cyrus and Eleanor, who was trying to be a better mother and was watching what she ate. It was there every time she lifted the fork to her lips; a bitter, acidic taste in her mouth.

Then, one night, he called. She lifted the phone to her ear, whispering, "Chuck?"

"Blair… " she shuddered when she heard his voice. She didn't speak, not really knowing what to say. She heard heavy breathing on the other line, and music in the background—and then a girl's voice.

"Who are you talking to, baby?" The girl's voice was shrill, and she heard her giggle. And then the line went dead.

That was the second time she did it. She felt sick—she tried to drink a glass of water, but it burned her throat—she fumbled in the bathroom cabinet and pulled out a bottle, shaking a few pills into her hand. She tried to put the bottle back, but her hand shook so much that the contents of the cabinet fell out, into the sink: cough syrup, tweezers, nail polish, tylenol, _J'Adore Dior, _toothpaste. She left them there and looked down at the pills in her hand. She swallowed them at once. She only needed one, really, but she wanted to fall asleep quickly. She wanted to forget the guilt, the shame she felt over her weakness.

A few weeks later she finally went to see him; she had not attempted any surprise visits to his home since he returned from Bangkok and thoroughly rejected her. But she was growing desperate. She knocked and knocked, and to her relief he finally opened the door. He smelled like alcohol. Blair tried to find something to say, and settled for: "you should stop drinking so much, or you'll really get addicted."

"Don't worry about it," he replied. "What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to see you," she said. She hated how weak her voice sounded.

"You should go home." He turned around and walked away, but he left the door open and she stepped inside. She closed it behind her.

"I need a drink," she muttered, going up to his desk and pouring some amber liquid from a bottle into a glass. She sniffed it, not knowing what it was.

"Scotch," he said, from behind her, so close behind that she tensed all over. His arm reached out, past her—brushing her arm—for the bottle. He raised it to his lips, foregoing a glass. She turned around, slowly, so that she was facing him; she could see how close he was standing to her now. She shivered. He lowered the bottle slowly, staring at her, a bit of alcohol leaking from the corner of his mouth. She leaned forward to wipe it away with her fingers. Her fingers lingered on his skin, and she stepped even closer.

"Chuck," she breathed. She leaned forward, tentatively, to kiss him.

"Don't." His eyes closed, and his voice came out in an angry rasp. "Don't make me do anything I'll regret." He forced his eyes open again.

"Why would you regret it?" Her lower lip trembled as she spoke, and he looked away.

"What do I have to do," he said, looking at the wall behind her—right past her—"to get you to leave me alone?"

"Do you really want to be left alone?" she blinked furiously.

"Yesss…" he hissed. "But you can't seem to accept that."

For a moment neither of them said anything, and then Blair, her heart beating wildly, reached for him and kissed him anyway.

At first she thought he wouldn't kiss her back, but after a moment he responded fiercely, tasting her, biting her lip so hard she thought it must have bled, hands roaming her body possessively, pulling her down to the floor. At first it was good. She felt feverish, giddy; his hands burned where they touched her and sent shocks through her skin. "I love you, I love you, I love you…" she whispered, her eyelids fluttering. He groaned and silenced her with an aggressive kiss. The sensations were so overwhelming she felt light-headed. He was sloppy, unguarded; he was not gentle with her.

It was like falling, like rolling down a hill and gaining momentum—she remembered that actually happening to her once, sledding in winter with Serena down a steep slope—she had fallen off the sled, and she remembered the terror she felt as she kept rolling—there were no restraints, she had no control, nothing to break her fall. She had slammed against a tree trunk, the breath knocked out of her; but nothing was broken. She was lucky that time. When it was over Chuck turned away from her—couldn't look at her—and asked, "Did I hurt you?" There was a break in his voice.

"No," she lied.

That night, when she got home—that was the third time she did it. It hurt, tore through her body; she heaved, she gasped, took in huge gulps of air, her heart beat unevenly, her breathing was harsh and irregular. And then she sank down, trembling, to lie on the bathroom floor. She felt bruised all over. She pressed her damp forehead against the cold tiles. But it was purging, and cleansing in a way; and there was no guilt this time.

And since then, it was the only thing she could do to make herself feel better, to ease the tension in her chest, to take control. Guilt was a thing of the past. By now, her body had weakened considerably. The night before, when Chuck had walked away from her at that bar, she had planned on running to the bathroom and taking care of it—dealing with the pain her way. Instead, she had fainted.

But she could control it now, she could do it after only certain meals—not every meal, she didn't want to make her mother suspicious. And her knew her body couldn't take much more as it was. She would have to be even more careful, now, since she would be living for a month with friends who would keep a close watch on her.

"We're going to take care of you, B," said Serena, who was in the seat beside hers on the plane. "You'll see—by the time we get back you'll feel much better." Serena took Blair's small hand in her own and wrapped her fingers around it.

"I'm such a mess," said Blair, "I'm sorry you've had to put up with me so long."

"Are you kidding?" said Serena. "You always take care of me whenever I'm in trouble. It's about time I returned the favor." She wrapped her arm around Blair's shoulder.

"We're your best friends," she continued, "even Dan. We don't judge. We're the non-judging breakfast club," she joked, echoing the same words Blair had said to her months before, when she had her own breakdown. Blair looked up and smiled.


	5. Chapter 5: The More Loving One

**Chapter Five: The More Loving One **

**Author's note: **I was writing this today at a Starbucks, and I overheard these teenage girls about my age gossiping excitedly about the new episode coming out on the 5th, and telling each other spoilers. Luckily I have this story to tide me over until then.

In the spirit of the holidays, this chapter is more cheerful. And as for "The Plan"—well, don't hold your breath, because it won't reveal itself for a while yet.

Enjoy. And please review!

---

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well

That, for all they care, I can go to hell,

But on earth indifference is the least

We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn

With a passion for us we could not return?

If equal affection cannot be,

Let the more loving one be me.

--W.H. Auden, _The More Loving One_

---

"Blady, get Nathaniel Archibald on the phone," ordered Chuck from behind the piles of paper on his desk.

His assistant reached tentatively for the phone.  
"Hello? Um, this is Charles Bass's office. I'm looking for Mr. Nathaniel Archibald? Oh, are you Mrs. Archibald? Oh, I see…well, Rosa, could you tell me how I could get in touch with either of the Archibalds?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake," put in Chuck, "are you talking to the maid I send over there on weekdays?"

"Thank you for your time." His assistant hung up the phone. He turned to face a scowling Chuck Bass.

"Yes, sir, that was Rosa—" he began.

"Well?" snapped Chuck. "Where are Nathaniel and his mother?"

"Mrs. Archibald is visiting family in Connecticut, and the maid doesn't know where young Mr. Archibald is. She hasn't seen him at the apartment at all this past week. May I recommend, sir, that you try calling his cell phone number?..."

"Of course I've tried his cell phone, you incompetent ass," snarled Chuck.

Robert Blady cringed a bit, and fiddled with his pen.

"I'm terribly sorry, sir," he replied. "If it's an urgent matter, I could send someone out to his usual haunts, to visit his friends, see if one of them knows where he is—"

"You can do that yourself," said Chuck coolly, leafing through the documents on his desk. "Check with the Van Der Woodsens first, then report back."

"Fine, sir."

Chuck waved a hand dismissively, and his assistant left.

He called Nate's cell phone again, waited until he hit voice mail:

"Nathaniel, I know you're angry with me, but you need to swallow your pride and call me back so we can discuss your finances. I wouldn't want our little argument to get in the way of your mother getting a loan. I shouldn't have to remind you that your father's being in jail leaves you in some very serious financial straits."

He closed his phone and glared at it angrily before turning back to his paperwork.

-----

"Bonjour, mon cher," said Serena cheerily as she handed Blair a croissant from a brown paper bag and plopped herself down at the table. Nate snatched the bag eagerly and withdrew a pastry; Serena had just been to the bakery to buy breakfast.

Blair rolled her eyes. "I think you mean 'bonjour _ma __chère__,' _unless of course you are under the impression that I am a boy."

Serena laughed. "I was never very good at French."

Dan snorted into his coffee. "I'll say. I remember I had to help you with your French homework last year. "'_How do you conjugate '__être__'? Is it the same as 'avoir'?' _" he mimicked.

"Hey," Serena punched him playfully in the arm. "You never made fun of my French last year."

"That's because we were dating."

Blair peeled off a strip of her still-warm croissant and lifted it to her mouth. She was eating more already, under Serena's watch; and she hadn't felt the urge to vomit in days. She was in a better mood than she had been in a very long time, hiding out in her father's villa in France with her friends. There was no stress, no reputation to uphold, no need to act or pretend, fewer reminders of Chuck—she only thought about him around twenty times a day now. It was easier, now that she had begun to accept that he really didn't love her. She always thought he did, a little, and just wouldn't admit it—but she saw it in his eyes, that night at the bar. That was why she fainted—not because what he said was hurtful, which it was. In his eyes that night she saw the wreck of all her hopes, and it was too much to take.

She shuddered. _I just need to stay far away from him, _she decided. _Live somewhere there are no reminders of him—if he gets into Yale, maybe I'll go to the Sorbonne instead. I like France. I feel better here than I do in New York. _And she'd only been there a week. _I wouldn't mind living here,_ she thought. _It's kinda nice. In Paris, of course, the south is too rural and boring for me. _

"Hey, guys," said Nate around a mouthful of pastry, "what are we doing tonight? Should we go see a movie?"

"Sure," said Serena. "What's playing?"

"Almost nothing, as usual," sighed Dan. "I already checked. _Quantum of Solace, Changeling, The Dark Knight… _yeah, that's pretty much it."

"Didn't those all come out ages ago?" asked Blair.

"Yes," replied Serena, "and they're all really depressing, from what I've heard."

"We could rent a movie," offered Nate, "We've been doing that most nights anyway."

"Our lives have become so exciting," joked Serena.

"Ah, it's a nice change," said Nate. "No bar-hopping, no alcohol consumption, no craziness for once. I like lying low."

Dan chuckled. "I never thought I would hear a group of upper east siders trash their own glitzy lifestyle."

"Shut up, Dan," Nate responded. "You're practically one of us now."

"What movie are we getting?" asked Blair, cutting to the point.

"Well, you're probably going to make us watch an Audrey Hepburn movie."

"Yeah, I probably will," smirked Blair. "Modern films are stupid."

"We can compromise," said Serena—"we can watch an old, classic movie that isn't mushy."

"_Breakfast At Tiffany's is NOT mushy!" _yelled Blair, indignant.

Serena pointedly ignored her. "How about a Hitchcock thriller?"

"Yeah, that's good, I love his work," said Dan, nodding wisely.

Nate muttered something that sounded suspiciously like '_pompous bastard'. _Dan glared at him.

"I'm not watching _Psycho," _pouted Blair.

"How about _Notorious?" _asked Dan. "Blair will like it, it's romantic."

Blair looked skeptical.

"It stars Carey Grant," added Dan.

Blair brightened. "Alright then."

----------------------

Chuck's office phone rang, interrupting his train of thought.

He answered it. "What?" he said irritably.

"The Van Der Woodsens don't know—or else, won't tell me—where Nate is."

"What do you mean, they won't tell you?" asked Chuck, sitting up. "What did Lily say?"

"She said, and I quote, 'Nathaniel is off somewhere with Blair and with my daughter.' And then she asked me to leave."

"So she knows where they all are," said Chuck angrily. "She wouldn't appear so unconcerned if her daughter were missing."

"I suppose, sir."

"Well, track down Eleanor and Cyrus Rose and ask them where their daughter is."

"I already tried, sir—they apparently left a week ago."

"Left where?" Chuck snapped.

"The Caribbean. For their honeymoon, it seems."

"Fine," said Chuck. "I'll talk to Eric." He hung up the phone and shrugged on his coat. _Nate fucking Archibald, my half-sister, and…her. _He wouldn't even consciously think her name to himself. _All of them mysteriously disappearing together. It's like a fucking conspiracy. _He got into his limo and said succinctly to the driver, "take me to the Van Der Woodsens'."

When the doorbell rang Lily opened it to find a stony-faced Chuck Bass standing on her doorstep. She cocked an eyebrow.

"Chuck," she said, "this is a surprise…" He stiffened.

"Lily," he acknowledged coldly, "just who I didn't come here to see."

"Well, then," countered Lily, "how can I help you?"

"Where's Eric?"

"In his room," Lily barely had a chance to reply, as Chuck pushed past her without another word.

-----------------

"Alright," asked Dan that evening, "whose turn is it to get the movie?"

"Serena's," replied Nate and Blair unanimously.

"Fine," said Serena, "but I can't drive, so someone who can has to come with me."

Nate rolled his eyes. "Ok, I will. Let's go."

Blair helped Dan put away the dishes from dinner after Serena and Nate left, grimacing a bit as she realized this was probably the first time she had ever cleared up a table or washed dishes before. Usually Dorota took care of this menial type of work.

"Do you want to wash, or dry?" Dan asked blandly, setting a stack of plates in the sink.

"Dry." Blair eyed the plates distastefully.

"Of course." Dan took a washcloth and wiped down a plate, running it under water before handing it to her. She took it gingerly, allowing the sudsy water to drip onto the counter before drying it with a paper towel. "Ugh," she said, wrinkling her nose, "I feel like a servant."

Dan laughed but made no comment, and proceeded to wash Serena's wine glass.

"Humphrey," said Blair slyly, placing the dried plate on a shelf, "why did you come to France with us, anyway?"

Dan was surprised. "I haven't heard you complain yet; not since you found out I'm the only one of us who is fluent in French."

"That's bullshit, Humphrey, I take AP French."

"Maybe, but your accent sucks."

"It does not!" Blair threw the towel at him, and Dan ducked.

"Alright," he chuckled, "it's not that bad."

"But really," said Blair, "I think you had an ulterior motive for coming."

Dan glanced at her sideways. "And what might that be?"

"Serena," said Blair smugly. "You want her back."

Dan blushed a bit. "And you'll do everything to prevent that from happening, right?"

Blair pondered the question for a moment. "I don't know," she said finally, her head cocked to the side as she studied Dan's profile consideringly.

Dan suddenly grinned as he handed her the clean wine glass. "Blair Waldorf," he said in a mocking tone, "does that mean you're beginning to warm towards me? I never thought I'd see the day…"

"Not really," said Blair, glancing down at her nails. She frowned as she saw that they were in a truly pitiable condition; she hadn't gotten a manicure in over a week now.

"But better you than that slime ball artist."

"Is she still with him?" asked Dan quickly.

"I don't think she has formally broken up with him yet," sighed Blair. "But I'll persuade her to get rid of him; leave the road clear for you."

"That's…nice of you," said Dan. "Surprisingly nice. Devious, but nice."

"Well," Blair gave an off-hand wave, "I guess I owe you."

Dan smiled at her and said nothing, and Blair was grateful.

-----------------

Eric was alone in his room, his nose stuck in a book. He glanced up when Chuck marched in, and did not appear surprised to see him.

"Eric," said Chuck, "where are your sister and her little friends?"

"She told me not to tell you," replied Eric, turning back to his book and flipping the page nonchalantly.

"_Eric_," Chuck began menacingly, "Don't screw with me."

"I'm afraid I can't help you, Chuck." Eric did not look up again.

Chuck decided he'd waste less time by forgoing the threats.

"Look, Eric, Nathaniel and his mother desperately need money, and I can't give them a loan until I've tracked him down and gotten him to sign some papers."

Eric looked up. "That's surprisingly nice of you."

Chuck was unresponsive.

Eric sighed. "I think you'll have to wait until they get back."

"From where?" began Chuck, exasperated. "And when?"

"Not until the end of Christmas break," said Eric firmly.

"That's too late! He needs to sign them in the next few days!"

"Well, I'm sorry, but they don't have internet access and their phones don't work overseas."

"Again," snarled Chuck, "_where are they?"_

"France," Eric conceded finally. "Blair's dad's—"

Chuck look surprised for a moment. "I think I have his contact information—"

That won't help. He's not with them," Eric explained. "He and his boyfriend went on vacation somewhere, left Blair and her friends the house."

"So there's no way to get in touch with any of them?"

"Not unless you fly there. Sorry."

"God damnit," said Chuck feelingly, turning on his heel and leaving the room without another word. He would have to fly his jet to France, or else the Archibalds would really go under. "Prick doesn't deserve it," he thought angrily. He slammed the front door moodily on his way out, and was deep in thought throughout the limo drive home.


	6. Chapter 6: The Hyacinth Girl

**Author's note**: So this is obviously a really speedy update. I guess I felt inspired to keep writing.

_Od' und leer das Meer _is the German for 'desolate and empty the sea.' It is a line from _Tristan and Isolde._

----

'You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;

'They called me the hyacinth girl.'

—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,

Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not

Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither

Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,

Looking into the heart of light, the silence.

_Od' und leer das Meer._

--T.S. Eliot, _The Burial of the Dead_

_-----------  
_

"_Deux soupes à l'oignon, un croque monsieur, et un coq au vin_," Dan prattled off to the waiter.

"Show off," said Nate offhandedly.

"_Très bien, monsieur_." The waiter replied, scribbling the order down in his pad. "_Et pour boire_?"

"Right, guys," Dan turned to the others, "What do you want to drink?"

"Just coffee," said Nate, and Serena nodded.

"_Trois cafés_," said Dan.

"_Et pour moi un café crème, s'il vous plait, mais sans sucre_," added Blair, ordering for herself. The waiter beamed at her.

"_Pour la jolie mademoiselle Americaine qui parle si bien en français, le café est gratuit_." The old man winked at her jovially and went back to the kitchen.

"What did he just say to Blair?" asked Serena, clearly amused.

Dan translated. "For the pretty young American lady who speaks so well in French, the coffee is on the house."

Serena laughed and elbowed Blair, who blushed a little. "Little Miss Waldorf has a new French boyfriend," she teased. "She likes her European men. First a British lord, then a French waiter."

"Shut up," said Blair, burying her face behind her newspaper.

"Guys," said Nate suddenly, "you realize it's Christmas in a few days."

"Yes, Nate, we are well aware of that fact," Blair replied from behind her newspaper, in a slightly condescending tone.

"We should buy a tree! There's a greenhouse and a botanical garden somewhere in this town, I remember from the guide book Dan made us read," concluded Nate.

"Nate, that's actually a really good idea!" said Serena enthusiastically.

"Sure," Dan agreed, "Shall we go when we're done eating?"

-----------------

"Aren't they pretty?" asked Serena in a low, almost reverent tone, as the four of them strolled through an avenue carved out between rows of pine trees. The air was filled with their aromatic scent, and the branches glistened with traces of snow. She felt overcome by the beauty and solemnity of the trees, the shadows, the snow, the stillness and quiet. It was magical; almost otherworldly.

"Any one of them you like," said Dan, placing his arm seemingly unconsciously around her shoulder. "We'll take whichever one you like the best."

Blair, walking behind them, sighed a little in envy. The two seemed to gravitate towards one another. They were so natural together; so easy, so effortless, despite the occasional arguments, the culture clash that had led to their break up. She had never had that. She had felt nothing for Marcus, really, apart from the shine she had taken to his title. And with Nate---well, Nate had been absent, so it had been meaningless.

With Chuck it was fire and ice, pain and violent pleasure, electric shocks up and down her spine and in her belly. Hunger. Blindness. When he was cruel to her it was like death. But before that, it was the essence of life itself. And it was never easy or effortless.

But here—walking among the trees with her friends—this was easy. The stiff, upright pine trees were so lovely and stern in the gathering dusk. She could see stars glimmering between the boughs, shining through the fists of needles. A whispering breeze blew through them, and the sound of needles rasping and rubbing together was slightly eerie.

When they reached the end of the avenue they saw in the distance a glittering, warmly lit glass building, which shone pink and orange in the reflected rays of the setting sun. A slight rain had begun to fall, like a silver curtain—a shimmering mist—over the glass dome, which glinted like a jewel.

"Ooh," said Blair, clapping her hands like a little girl, "I want to go there!"

"I'll go with you," said Nate from beside her, taking her mittened hand in his own. Blair smiled up at him.

"Sure," said her best friend, "Dan and I will keep scouting for a tree." Blair and Nate took off towards the greenhouse, and when they were halfway there Blair looked back for a moment and saw the two shadows that were Dan and Serena clinging to each other beneath the trees, almost melting together as if they were one. Blair's smile widened and she turned back, broke into a run until she reached the door, and swung it open so that golden light spilled out into the woods.

She let out a happy laugh—the first Nate had heard from her in months—and rushed inside. He quickly followed, his heart pounding in his ears.

Inside the greenhouse it was warm, almost hot, and bright with lights—and rows and clusters of exotic, brilliant flowers of every color, half-hidden between emerald green leaves. Blair caught her breath and flushed pink, and her eyes sparkled. She threw off her winter coat—it had been a surprisingly warm day for December, and she had only worn a summer dress beneath it—and she danced off through the aisles, pausing to cup the prettiest flowers in her hand, to drink in their perfume. She picked one blossom to twirl it absently in her hair.

She stopped at a cluster of deep purple-blue flowers and exclaimed in delight. "Come here, Nate, look at these!"

Nate stood rooted to the spot, his throat suddenly dry. He tried to swallow, but he felt dizzy. He was overcome at the sight of her, in her yellow dress, so flushed and happy and surrounded with flowers. He saw with clarity for the first time how truly beautiful she was; not coldly beautiful or dignified, as he had once considered her. She was full of life, vibrant, exquisite—the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. More so even than Serena, he realized now.

"Come here, Nate," Blair repeated, looking at him quizzically. "You look like someone hit you over the head with something really heavy."

"Sorry," Nate forced a laugh, and finally walked to her and stood awkwardly at her side.

"Aren't they lovely?" sighed Blair, gathering the flowers in her arms.

"Are you allowed to do that?" asked Nate.

"I'll pay for them," Blair shrugged. She buried her face in them, inhaling their scent as they clung wetly to her skin, nestled in the crook of her arm. He couldn't take his eyes off her slim, bared arm, dewy with moisture from the flowers, as it curved gracefully to hold them. They dripped over her arm and onto her dress. His eyes moved up her arm to her frail shoulder, her shapely neck, her rosy smiling lips.

"Hyacinths," she explained. "In some cultures they are considered a symbol of rebirth."

"When did you become a botanist?" Nate joked, his voice sounding as if it came from far away.

"I just love flowers," she said distractedly, still gazing down blissfully at them.

Nate laughed, and looked up, hoping to spy other flowers she might like—and then froze. The blood drained from his face.

"Blair," he said in a hoarse whisper.

"What?" Blair inhaled one last time and looked up dreamily.

And there, standing at the doorway and silhouetted by the dark trees and falling rain, his coat wet and his hair mussed, was Chuck Bass.


	7. Chapter 7: A Thunderbird

**Author's note: **This wonderful poem was recommended by one of my readers. You know who you are. :)

Please review! The more you review, the more motivated I am to update speedily (and I guess this is my feeble attempt at blackmail).

Enjoy.

**Chapter Seven: A Thunderbird**

"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;

I lift my lids and all is born again.

(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,

And arbitrary blackness gallops in:

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed

And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.

(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:

Exit seraphim and Satan's men:

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,

But I grow old and I forget your name.

(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;

At least when spring comes they roar back again.

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

(I think I made you up inside my head.)"

--Sylvia Plath, _Mad Girl's Love Song_

It's funny, thought Nate hazily, how in a moment things can change so quickly; an impression is altered or forgotten, and everything falls apart. The greenhouse and everything held in it had seemed so beautiful to him just a second ago; so perfect, as if he had stepped into an enchanted world in which all the flaws of the real one had magically melted away, and everything was in its rightful place.

And yet, now, as he felt his blood turning to syrup in his veins—his heartbeat slowing, thickening, pounding so that he could hear it—the lights seemed harsh, lurid; the hosts of flowers blended into a cacophony of clashing colors. Blair looked like a statue that had been slapped with red paint—she was white as marble everywhere but her lips and the twin spots of feverish red on her cheeks.

A few seconds had passed, perhaps a minute, perhaps more. Nate couldn't tell. And still, no one had said anything.

Oddly enough, Chuck seemed the most shocked of any of them. As he stood at the doorway and beheld them for the first time, Nate saw pure panic flash across his eyes—and then something else, which Nate couldn't put his finger on—and then the shutters were closed, and his eyes were blank and unrevealing. Even so, he looked only at the floor, at Nate, at the flowers, at the glass walls; everywhere but at her.

Finally, Blair was the one who broke the silence. She lifted up her chin and said: "It's funny how you told me endlessly that you wanted me to leave you—and then a week after I did, you follow me across a continent." Her voice was smooth and collected. But her cheeks and lips still burned scarlet and her eyes glittered strangely.

"I didn't come here for you," said Chuck in a monotone, staring right past her. His eyes were unfocused, and to Nate they looked vacant—as if he'd been blinded.

"I have some papers I need you to sign, Nathaniel."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" said Nate. "That's what you flew to France for? How did you find us here anyway?"

"I just asked around in the town square if anyone had seen a group of American teenage tourists. A waiter in the main restaurant told me that my American friends had asked for directions to the botanical garden."

"Just like that?"

Chuck shrugged. "The townspeople are very trusting."

Nate heard some noises outside; the sound of pebbles being dislodged from the ground, a splash. Approaching footsteps, bubbly laughter. Dan and Serena. He groaned inwardly.

"Guys," Dan called from outside the door, "we found a tree."

The door opened.

"Who's that--?" Serena started to ask, catching sight of Chuck's back, and then Chuck turned around.

"_Chuck_?" Serena and Dan were both dumbfounded. "What are you doing here?" asked Serena in a shocked voice. Chuck ignored her and turned back to Nate.

Nate unconsciously placed a hand on Blair's arm protectively. Chuck noticed the gesture and his eyes flashed.

"Just sign the papers," he growled, "and I'll be happy to leave. I didn't mean to crash your pathetic little party."

"What papers?" Nate had begun to tremble with rage.

"The ones you need to sign so that I can give you a loan, you idiot," he said through clenched teeth.

"You want to give him money?" Blair said incredulously.

"I don't want it," said Nate angrily. "I won't take anything from him."

"_You want to go to jail because of a grudge?"_

"My grandparents are giving us money. We don't need you."

"_Fine," _snapped Chuck, incensed. "When it turns out they aren't willing to raise enough for your mother to live on, don't come running to me."

"I don't plan to," asserted Nate. "You shouldn't have come here. You've upset Blair; she was so happy before you came and ruined it—"

"Oh yes," seethed Chuck, "I'm surprised my mere presence hasn't sent her into hysterics."

Behind him, Serena shook her head angrily. Blair glanced down at her hands, which were clasped together so tight the knuckles were white and bloodless.

"Poor, fragile little princess Blair," Chuck spat, eyeing Nate's hand on her shoulder with disgust. "I'm glad she finally got her Prince Charming to shield her against the big bad Bass."

Blair looked up, her eyes bright in her small, pale face. She stepped forward.

"Enough," she said in growing anger. "_Enough_."

She poked a finger in Chuck's chest.

"I know you're upset about your dad," she continued breathlessly, "_but that does not excuse your behavior." _Her eyes glittered with deadly fire. "Do you really think," she continued, after a moment—"that we're going to keep forgiving you, every time?"

Chuck didn't say anything.

"Is that what you expect from us?" she repeated.

"I don't expect anything from you."

Blair let her hand drop to her side. "Good," she said. "You shouldn't. Now, why don't you go back where you came from?" Chuck stared at her, his eyes glassy and impenetrable again, and did not move or speak.

"Fine," she snapped. She pushed past him and out the door angrily, into the trees and rain. She heard footsteps behind her, and her breath constricted; but it was only Serena.

"Hey," she said, catching up to Blair, "are you okay?"

"I'm so _sick _of his _bullshit_," Blair fumed, still stomping furiously through the woods.

"It's good that you're angry," Serena said.

"_What_?"

Serena shrugged. "I prefer Angry Blair to Masochistic Blair. It's good to see you stand up for yourself. That was my main goal, actually, in getting you to come here."

"When you told me," Blair cut her eyes sideways at Serena, "the day we got here, that you had a plan for dealing with Chuck—_was this what you had in mind?"_

"Oh, no, no no no," Serena shook her head furiously, "we had no idea he would come here. I still can hardly believe that he did." She paused thoughtfully. "But it meshes rather nicely with our plan, now that you mention it."

"I should just start dating Nate again," muttered Blair spitefully. "That would seriously piss him off."

Serena glanced at her and a surprised little smile tugged at her lips. "It's funny you should say that…"


	8. Chapter 8: We Will Forget Him

**Chapter Eight: We Will Forget Him**

Heart, we will forget him!

You and I, to-night!

You may forget the warmth he gave,

I will forget the light.

When you have done, pray tell me,

That I my thoughts may dim;

Haste! lest while you're lagging,

I may remember him!

Emily Dickinson, _Heart, we will forget him! _

Serena, Dan and Nate sat around the kitchen table silently, still somewhat shell-shocked. Blair had gone immediately into the bathroom to take a hot shower, and had so far been in there for at least an hour and fifteen minutes. Dan checked his watch to make sure. It was amazing to him that the hot water even lasted this long.

"Do you think she drowned in there?" he asked, and it was only half-joke.

"I'm sure she's fine." Serena sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. "Relatively."

"Maybe you should go check."

Serena raised her eyebrows.

"I'm not going to go in there while she's _in the shower_," he explained in the tone of one speaking to a particularly dimwitted toddler.

"Fine," Serena snapped, flouncing out of the room.

She knocked tentatively on the bathroom door.

"Blair?"

She could barely hear Blair's response, so she opened the door. She blinked suddenly at the onslaught of hot steam. She closed the door behind her and sat on the closed toilet seat.

"You okay?" she called.

Blair didn't bother to reply. She was probably sick of being asked that, Serena realized. And it was a pointless question, since she so obviously wasn't okay at all. Serena sighed.

"Look, you know the plan now," she said. "You don't have to follow through with it if you don't want to, though I still think it's a good idea." She paused to wipe a strand of yellow hair, now damp, from her face. "I'm sorry we built it up so much," she added, frowning slightly as she realized her hair had started to frizz because of the humidity.

Blair was silent, so Serena tried a different topic.

"The three of us have to go to the store and buy food for dinner. We're going now, before it closes. Do you want anything is particular?"

"I'm not hungry," came Blair's muffled reply from behind the curtain.

Serena frowned. "Fine. We're leaving. But I'll make you eat something later."

She got up to leave and straightened her skirt, lingering for a moment, expecting Blair to say something. She didn't.

Slightly disappointed, Serena left the bathroom and the door swung shut behind her.

As she reentered the kitchen she found that Dan and Nate had gotten into an argument of sorts.  
"I'm just saying," said Dan cautiously, "that it was actually ridiculously nice--and caring--of him to fly all the way to France to give money to a guy that hates him." He paused to consider what he had just said. "Wow. I just used the word 'caring' to describe Chuck Bass. I think hell just froze over."

"He's an asshole," said Nate angrily. "You shouldn't try to defend him."

"I think what he did today is very defensible."

"You don't get it," Nate said shortly. "He's just trying to control me; get me back, manipulate me to be his friend again by giving me money."

"All that proves," opined Dan, "is that your friendship means a lot to him."

"What the hell is this? Do you want me to back out of the plan? Is that it?"

Dan held up his hands in protest. "No, no--of course not. I'm just trying to give credit where it's due--"

"He doesn't deserve any credit whatsoever," Nate snarled.

"There's no need to get so defensive," said Dan. "But really, don't you think you're being a little harsh?"

"_Harsh?_ After what he did to Blair!?"

"Leave Blair out of this. This is about you and Chuck."

"Maybe," said Nate darkly, "he was trying to get back in Blair's pants, impressing her by putting on a show of being nice to me."

Dan stared at him. "You sound like a jealous boyfriend. That's totally irrational."

Nate said something like "Hmmptf" and glared at Dan defiantly.

"Um," Serena cleared her throat, and both boys looked up, startled, "hate to intrude, but we need to go shopping for food _now. _Nate, you can drive this time."

Nate nodded wordlessly and stood up to put on his coat.

"Coming, Dan?" asked Serena when it became clear that Dan didn't intend to budge from his seat.

"No," he said. "I'll stay here and catch up on my economics homework."

Serena rolled her eyes and she and Nate left.

Dan sighed in relief; it was nice to have some time to himself, alone. Especially as Nate was pissing him off. He felt thirsty, so he took a glass off a shelf in the kitchen and placed it under the faucet, filled it with water. When he turned it off he realized that the house had gone suddenly silent; Blair had obviously turned off the shower. _About time, _he thought.

He wandered over to the sofa with his glass of water, sat down, picked up one of Serena's stupid fashion magazines and started to flip through it casually. There were many pictures of ridiculously tall, rake-thin girls wearing over-the-top designer ensembles and striking some very odd poses. One girl draped in what was advertised as "Oscar de la Renta eveningwear, $18,000" looked like she was about to topple over. Dan glanced back at the front cover of the magazine; it was called "Vogue," apparently. It was the kind of crap Jenny probably read, he mused.

His train of thought was shattered when he suddenly heard a very strange sound coming from the bathroom. He thrust aside the magazine. It was the sound of retching, he realized, followed by short, harsh gasps. His eyes widened, he stood up, he ran to the bathroom; his heart was beating a tattoo against his chest.

"_Blair?" _he thrust open the door, not even bothering to ask if she was decent. As it turned out she was wrapped in a white terrycloth robe; she was kneeling on the floor. Her thin frame shuddered, and her arms clutched the toilet bowl. He watched in panic as she emptied out the contents of her stomach.

She looked up at Dan, breathing heavily, and her eyes were red.

"I thought everyone had left," she said.

Dan knelt down on the floor and pried Blair's hands off the toilet bowl, took them in his own. They looked so small; they were wrinkled and pruned from being so long in water.

"Were you waiting for us to leave," he asked, "so you could do _this?"_

Blair gulped and looked away.

"So you know," she said quietly, "about my…problem."

"Yeah, Serena told me about it," said Dan. "She said it ended years ago."

A single tear rolled down Blair's cheek.

"When did it start again?"

"A few months ago," Blair whispered. "But just now was the first time…since we came to France."

Dan didn't need to ask why.

"_I'm sorry," _Blair hiccupped, looking sadder than he had ever seen her, and he couldn't take it.

He wrapped his arms around her, and she folded into him; her head snuggled in under his chin. She wept into his shirt, still trembling, and Dan hugged her tighter, not knowing what to do. His chest constricted, his heart tightened like an iron fist had closed around it.

"I overheard you and Nate, in the kitchen," came her small voice. "I stepped out of the shower for a minute to listen, when I heard raised voices." He could feel that her breathing had turned rapid and shallow. "And you're _right. _He loves Nate—" she was crying freely. "He really does!" She lifted her head to look at him for a moment, and her eyes were full of despair. "I've been trying to convince myself that he's incapable of love," she whispered. "I decided that he was a monster, that no one could get through to him, it wasn't that anything was wrong with me." She lifted her chin. "But that's wrong. He loves some people. He just doesn't love _me._"She let out a small cry of pain as these last words came out and lifted her hand to her mouth to stifle it."I'm not good enough—"

"No, no, no," Dan fiercely, and placed his hands on her shoulders firmly. He stared intently into her eyes, willing her to believe him. "That is a _lie_. Don't you _ever_ think that again. You're perfect, Blair. You're better than anybody." She bowed her head again to rest against him, and he wrapped his arms around her once more, rocking her gently.

After a few minutes the sobbing had subsided. "I'm sorry," she said again. "You must think I'm pathetic." She sniffed.

"No, I don't," said Dan, stroking her hair, "and you aren't." They were silent again, for a while. Then he heard an intake of breath.

"I'll try to forget him," she said brokenly, her voice muffled by his chest, and he winced.


	9. Chapter 9: That Greenhouse

**Author's note: **Happy New Year everybody!!

Here is the long-awaited Chuck POV. Enjoy. And pretty please, please review. ;

**Chapter Nine: That Greenhouse**

****  
**

**Meditations in an Emergency**

How I am to become a

legend, my dear? I've tried love, but that holds you in the

bosom of another and I'm always springing forth from it like

the lotus--the ecstasy of always bursting forth! (but one must

not be distracted by it!) or like a hyacinth, "to keep the

filth of life away," yes, even in the heart, where the filth is

pumped in and slanders and pollutes and determines. I will my

will, though I may become famous for a mysterious vacancy in

that department, that greenhouse.

--Frank O'Hara

**

"Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Bass?" crooned a scantily clad blonde stewardess, leaning forward unnecessarily as she placed Chuck's scotch in front of him, so that he could hardly avoid looking down her shirt. He didn't try to avoid looking, but the sight brought him little pleasure.

"Yes, thank you—" he paused forgetfully.

"Amy," she supplied.

"Thank you, Amy."

Her lips stretched into what he supposed was meant to be a seductive smile.

"Why don't you sit down. No, not on me, next to me."

She pouted and shifted a few inches away from him.

"Amy," he said, "what do you do when you're trying to forget something that happened to you, but you can't?"

She seemed surprised, and she bit her lip as she considered the question. "Well," she said finally, "I would probably get drunk."

"No," Chuck shook his head, "that doesn't help much. I've been trying it for months."

"Well," she said, and placed her hand on his knee suggestively, "there's something else you could do to distract yourself."

"No," said Chuck, pushing her hand onto her own lap. "I don't think that'll work either." He stared distractedly out the window of his private jet at the clouds, until they parted and he had to look away from the bright flash of sunlight. He glanced over at Amy, who was looking very cross indeed. "Amy," he said, "you don't need to sleep with the boss to get a good paycheck. Be a good girl and go ask the pilot how many more hours this flight will be."

She got to her feet, annoyed, and left.

He downed his scotch in one gulp, hoping it would help him fall asleep, and stretched himself comfortably along the warm leather seating.

"Five hours left, Mr. Bass," he heard Amy say. He groaned.

He was developing a headache; he frowned and closed his eyes, willed it to go away.

--------------------

"Chuck? What are you doing here?" She was wearing a starchy white couture dress with lace edgings and a high, stiff collar; it looked uncomfortable, and it was an odd dress to be worn by such a young girl. Her tiny feet were adorned with white ballet slippers and she wore dainty white gloves. It was an Eleanor Waldorf ensemble.

"Where's Nate?" Her eyes were wide and innocent.

He looked down the aisles of fragrant blossoms, avoiding her gaze. "He couldn't make it. He…asked me to come instead."

"What?" Blair stomped her little foot angrily, and her face fell. "I'm throwing a party for _his _mother, honestly! The least he could do is help me pick out the flowers like I asked…"

"I'm sorry, Blair," he said, and it was a rare expression of sympathy from him—though of course, she did not notice.

"God, sometimes he's such a—" she waved her arms expressively. "Well, I don't swear, but if I did, I would."

"Why don't you?" he asked, slightly amused.

"It's not ladylike." She crossed her arms and lifted her chin disdainfully while he sniggered.

"Are you going to help me pick out flowers for Nate's mom's birthday, or not?"

"You don't really need help." He rolled his eyes. He scanned the surrounding flowers and his gaze landed on a cluster of brilliant blue blossoms. He pointed at them.

"Those are nice."

"Hmmm."

"Here," said Chuck, and lifted an armful, handing it to Blair. She held the flowers against her white dress and looked down at them, apparently deep in thought. The star-like blue flowers mingled with her waving chestnut hair against the snowy whiteness of her dress; her cheeks were pink and her rosy, pouty mouth was turned downward into a frown.

Somehow, the sight of Blair cradling his flowers in her arms touched him oddly.

"Blair," began Chuck, feeling incredibly brave—"you look really pr—"

"Oh, I know what these are," interrupted Blair, still looking at the flowers. "Hyacinths." She shook her head and scrunched up her nose. "Much too common. Maybe we should stick with roses, or orchids…"

------------------------------

Chuck woke up suddenly; his eyes jerked open, he sat up, he realized he was breathing heavily.

"God, where the fuck did that come from?" He asked out loud. He was seriously shaken. He sat still for a while, waiting to calm down. The sky was darkening outside his window.

_That really happened,_ he thought to himself incredulously. _I remember now. Jesus Christ, how long ago was that? _Middle school, he decided. Must have been. He stayed where he was for some minutes, rigidly immobile, frowning sternly into the distance. The jet flew through a large, heavy cloud that blocked the weakening sunlight—inside it was gloomier, not just darker, not just grey.

"Amy," he called, after a while.

"Yes?" The blonde poked her head around the door.

"I've reconsidered your offer."

She smiled and sauntered into the room, unfastening a barrette from her hair and beginning to unbutton her shirt, and he pulled her onto his lap.


	10. Chapter 10: Despite the Snow

**Author's Note**: Sorry it took so long to update! I was on a week-long trip visiting friends. Updates will be prompt from now on, especially if you take the time to review. :) In fact, the next chapter—in which the fab four return to New York—should be up sometime tomorrow.

**She Tells Her Love**

She tell her love while half asleep,

In the dark hours,

With half-words whispered low:

As Earth stirs in her winter sleep

And puts out grass and flowers

Despite the snow,

Despite the falling snow.

-

-- Robert Ranke Graves

**

It had been two weeks, now, since Dan had found Blair in the bathroom. After a long time she had relaxed against him, and Dan had started to think about getting her to bed before the others got home. She had finally stopped crying, and then she had suddenly looked up at him.

"Dan, please promise me you won't tell Serena or Nate."

Dan stiffened. "Blair—"

"Please."

"Serena, at least, deserves to know—"

"I couldn't stand it if she did," Blair sniffed. "It's bad enough that you know."

"She just wants to help you get better."

"She'll flip out," asserted Blair. "and I just can't deal with it right now. I really can't…"

"I don't know Blair, I don't really feel comfortable—"

"Please," she repeated. "Don't make me beg."

"You're already begging," he pointed out, somewhat unfeelingly. Blair glared at him. "Don't make me go all Serena Van Der Woodsen on your ass, Humphrey."

"What are you talking about?"

"She can throw some mean punches when she's drunk."

"I guess I woudn't want to be on the receiving end of one of those."

She had giggled a little through her tears, and that made him feel a little better. "Fine," he said after a moment, against his better judgment. "I promise." She had closed her eyes and sighed in relief.

He had lifted her in his arms and carried her to her bed; she had fallen asleep with his arm around her, tears starring her lashes so that they glittered in the dark room. It was a troubled, light sleep, and she murmured several words and broken phrases. Dan struggled to hear, and though he could not make out very much, he was sure he heard the name "Chuck" pronounced more than once. He sighed and after several minutes extricated himself and got out of bed as quietly as he could. He had to be ready to lie to Serena and Nate when they returned. Just as he took a step away from the bed, Blair, still asleep, clutched his arm convulsively, and whispered,

"No, Chuck, don't leave…not again." her eyelids fluttered. "Please."

"Shh, Blair, it's ok."

"I'm cold," she whispered. "Is it still snowing?"

Dan, surprised by the odd question, placed a hand to her forehead; she was feverish.

"I'm always…so cold," she muttered, half-conscious. Dan drew another blanket up to her chin, though it was perfectly warm in the heated house.

He waited for her to lapse back into a deeper sleep, and then leaned forward to place a kiss on her forehead before leaving.

**

"Dan?"

Dan looked up, shocked out of his reverie. Serena plopped down beside him on the sofa and twirled a strand of golden hair absentmindedly with her finger.

"I've been thinking," she said worriedly, "Blair hasn't been Queen Bee for a while now, and since that whole episode with Chuck right before we came to France somehow made it onto Gossip Girl's radar…"

"It did?" asked Dan, shocked. "She overheard what Chuck said to her?" As the realization began to sink in, Serena observed an expression of mingled horror and pity dawn on his countenance. She realized with some surprise that it was quickly turning to something like fury.

"Gossip Girl has no right to do this to her," he said as his eyes darkened. "Did she take pictures and post them or something? I will hunt down that malicious little bitch and put her stalking days to an end _forever_. Just wait 'til I get my hands on her, I'll wring her filthy little neck—"

"Dan," interrupted Serena, shocked, "come on. It's Gossip Girl we're talking about. You can't really be surprised."

Dan was still fuming, so Serena put her hand over his clenched fist and opened it slowly, intertwining his fingers with hers.

"I thought you knew," she said, "but then again you don't check Gossip Girl as much as Nate and I do. Part of the reason I wanted Blair to come here was so she could stay away from it for a while. She still has no idea that the whole Upper East Side saw Chuck humiliate her like that."

"Did she take pictures?" he asked shortly.

"More like streaming video," said Serena sadly.

Dan got to his feet suddenly and paced around the room, withdrawing Serena's hand from his.

"How do you know this?"

Serena looked down at her hands in her lap. "I've been sneaking into an internet café to keep track of things," she said. "It's pretty bad. You know how those girls are; they're totally unsympathetic, evil—" she rubbed her temples and sighed. "I think it's as bad as it was when the whole Chuck and Nate thing happened and she almost left the country."

Dan had still been pacing, but he stopped suddenly, and turned to look at Serena. Something suddenly clicked.

"You had this in mind when you agreed to my plan," he said.

"Yes," nodded Serena. "It's the best way I can think of to deal with her negative social status. We can restore her position."

"I'm not sure she even wants to be Queen Bee anymore."

"Sure she does," Serena said. "It's always been really important to her."

"After what happened with Chuck—"

"You didn't see her after he came back, when she tried to join that old women's social club, how she went on about how being admitted could help her build a new life—"

"She didn't join the club, did she?" Dan was annoyed.

"That's true," Serena admitted. "But Chuck's out of the picture and I think she wants her old life back."

"That's ridiculous," said Dan, still in a bad mood since his revelation about Gossip Girl. "She's not as superficial as you make her out to be."

"I didn't say she was superficial!" Serena was offended. She stood up, placed her hands on her hips.

"Since when are you a better judge of Blair's psychology than I am?" She demanded. "When did you two become such good friends? You barely know her! You didn't even like her—"

"I know her quite well," Dan asserted. "I think I know her well enough to state confidently that she no longer cares about her former posse at school."

Serena shook her head.

"You really don't get it, Dan. She's moving on; she's not hung up on Chuck as much as she used to be. When the dust settles and everything's back to normal, she'll be the old Blair again, and she'll want the same things she used to before Chuck drove her half insane."

She pointed out the window, where Dan saw Nate and Blair walking back from the grocery store; Nate was carrying the bags and laughing at something Blair had said—she stumbled, and he eagerly reached out to catch her elbow and then link her arm with his.

"You see," said Serena, smiling.

"What is this?" Dan stared at her. "When did you decide to play matchmaker and—"

"I haven't done anything!" Serena protested. "I just predicted this might happen naturally. She's always loved Nate, you know, her entire life—and Nate was just starting to reciprocate when that whole fiasco with Chuck happened."

Dan shook his head, flustered, and opened his mouth to respond—but Nate and Blair had reached the front door and were now inside, and he had to keep his retort for later.

"Hello Serena, Humphrey," said Blair brightly, "We bought pasta. Humphrey will have to cook, he's the only one of us with any knowledge of cooking, since he's too poor to keep a chef." Nate chuckled and leaned forward to take her coat from her; she batted her eyes at him.

_I guess Serena's not completely delusional, _Dan thought to himself. _She's wrong but she didn't see Blair that night in the bathroom…she doesn't realize Blair's just pretending._

"Fine," he said, "I'll make dinner." He took the shopping bags from Nate resignedly and headed to the kitchen.


	11. Chapter 11: Punishment

**Author's Note:** Thanks so much for the reviews, guys! Keep it up!

Many thanks to the brilliant Hoshi Tamamushiirono for writing the Gossip Girl alert which I plagiarized. :)

-

**Punishment**

I almost love you

but would have cast, I know,

the stones of silence.

I am the artful voyeur

-

of your brain's exposed

and darkened combs,

your muscles' webbing

and all your numbered bones:

-

I who have stood dumb

when your betraying sisters,

cauled in tar,

wept by the railings,

-

who would connive

in civilized outrage

yet understand the exact

and tribal, intimate revenge.

-

Seamus Heaney

-

-

"Hey, Chuck."

Chuck turned around and saw Eric standing behind him, his hands in his pockets, shivering slightly with cold.

"Hello little brother." Chuck took a cigarette out of his pocket and lit up.

"Right." Eric rolled his eyes. "So I'm your brother again."

Chuck shrugged. "I've rather missed having a younger sibling to corrupt."

Eric didn't think he was serious, and chose to ignore him. "So what are you doing out here in the cold? Waiting to see if the girls will show up to the first day of school?"

"Hardly," Chuck took a long drag of his cigarette, "I _know _they will. The little princess would never miss a day of school. She wants to be a Yalie."

"You know," smiled Eric slyly, "These past few months, I have _never_ heard you refer to Blair by her first name."

"Yes I have," said Chuck, annoyed. He turned back to look at the street, where he spied a familiar limousine approaching.

Eric raised his eyebrows. "You definitely haven't."

"Blair Blair Blair," said Chuck sarcastically. "Blair Blair Blair Blair. See, I can say it."

"Oh my," said another voice from behind him, "when Eric told me you'd been sulking and dwelling on Blair for months, I didn't know he meant it quite so literally."

Chuck spun around. Standing there next to Eric in her annoying, obviously homemade uniform was little Jenny, grinning impishly.

"Oh, both of you piss off," said Chuck irritably, turning back around. The limousine had stopped in front of the school.

"Is that Blair and Serena?" came Jenny's shrill voice from behind him. "Oh, look, my brother's with them too!" Chuck didn't even hear her.

Dan had exited first and was holding the door open; he stretched forth a hand to help out the girl who was still inside.

He saw Blair's legs first, stepping out of the car. They were long and slim as he remembered, clad in bright red tights and pointy black shoes. She smiled as she took his hand.

Blair _smiling _at Humphrey? Chuck thought, bewildered. What the hell?

She was standing on the pavement, now, her chocolate curls bouncing on her shoulders, straightening her little schoolgirl skirt. Her lips were red, her cheeks rosy, her eyes sparkled; she had gained weight, she looked healthy again. She was no longer the pale scarecrow she had been before she left. She was wearing one of her trademark headbands and she was perfectly groomed; it was the old Blair. She was unruffled, poised, even vivacious—apparently no longer heartbroken. Chuck's breath constricted in his chest.

_Be happy, _he thought. _This is what you wanted._

Eric glanced at Chuck; he had paled, and he was taking deep breaths as if to calm himself. He sighed and turned back to look at the street.

Dan had stooped to help Serena out of the limousine, she had smiled at him; then Dan turned back to Blair and hooked his arm through hers. The two of them set off up the steps, on the long walk to the front door. The whole school was staring at them. A snowball hit Blair's shoulder—Chuck's fists clenched. He heard Penelope's ringing voice across the courtyard;

"Are you turning to Cabbage Patch now that Nate Archibald and Chuck Bass have both rejected you?"

Blair looked shocked. Dan wiped the snow off her coat and whispered something in her ear. She nodded. Then Dan wrapped his arm around her shoulders, all the while ignoring Penelope entirely.

The girls on the steps were tittering.

A huge, icy snowball suddenly exploded in Penelope's face—she let out a gasp, stuttered, her face turning red—Serena brushed the snow off her gloves with a satisfied smirk.

Penelope didn't appear to have anything to say to her. Serena took Blair's other arm, and the three of them entered the school without another word.

"Chuck?" said Jenny slowly. "Are you okay?"

Eric stared at him. He had tossed aside his unfinished cigarette—it smoldered against the snow on the ground. His fists were curled tight against his sides and he was shaking slightly. His jaw was clenched and his eyes were shooting sparks.

"Chuck?" began Eric cautiously, placing a tentative hand on his shoulder. Chuck waved him aside with a harsh gesture.

"Just go to class," he said in a very low voice. "I'm fine."

Jenny's eyes flickered back and forth from Eric to Chuck.

"It's ok," Eric said to her softly, taking her arm. "Let's go." A few minutes after they had gone Chuck was still standing in the snow staring out at the street, and he heard his phone buzz suddenly. He opened it with shaking fingers:

-

Spotted: Lonely Boy looking not so lonely as he valiantly defends our precious Queen B. Looks like B has a new guardian angel, S. Or could it possibly be that he wants to play knight in shining armor? Better watch out N and C, cause we know hard how all our favorite ladies fall for the brooding intelligent type. B and her new boy could even take on Yale together. We know that B belongs with you, C, but if you take a leaf out of N's book and don't treat her like the Queen she is, B will be moving on to someone who loves her even more. You should know better than any one, right C? You know what they say about love, C: Blair today, gone tomorrow.

You know you love me,

XOXO

Gossip Girl

-

Chuck snorted. Gossip Girl was ridiculous; Blair and Humphrey? Blair had better taste than that. No, Humphrey wasn't what was bothering him. He closed his phone and fastened his eyes on a thin, stocking-clad figure still standing on the steps—she sported a pretentiously oversized Balenciaga bag on one arm and a headband (an almost exact copy of Blair's) held back her dark hair. Penelope.

The look of anger eventually faded in his eyes as he observed her frantically wiping the snow from her face—he smirked, and then turned and walked back towards the building. He always felt better when he had a plan.

Eric and Jenny were still loitering outside near the doors; the first class of the morning wasn't due to start for another ten minutes.

"Eric," Chuck called.

Eric and Jenny looked up at him, surprised.

"I'm aware that you are in possession of some damaging information regarding Penelope."

"How does he know that?" asked Jenny to Eric.

"Eric was boasting about it just the other day when he came to my office," Chuck drawled, "He thought it was so clever of you, Little J, protecting that bespectacled Asian girl by blackmailing the new Queen Bee."

"Why were you at his office?" asked Jenny rather irrelevantly.

"My mom asked me to go check on him," Eric muttered.

"I want you two to tell me everything you know," said Chuck firmly.

"Why?" asked Jenny.

"Did you not see what she just did?" Chuck's eyes lit up. "I'm taking that bitch down."

**

"Just ignore them, B, they'll be worshiping you again soon enough," said Serena encouragingly as Blair pulled her books out of her locker.

"It's fine," said Blair shortly, swinging the door shut so that it let out a metallic clang. "Honestly, I don't really care."

"Really?" Serena could not keep the surprise out of her voice.

"You don't give me much credit, Serena," replied Blair grimly, stuffing her books into her bag. "After everything I've been through, this is not particularly devastating. Relatively. I've matured."

"Okay," Serena said, trying not to look at Dan, whom she was sure was gloating.

"I'm going to class," Blair glanced at her watch. "Humphrey, you coming?"

"You two are going to class together?" asked Serena, somewhat puzzled.

"Yeah, we're both in AP French," said Dan, taking Blair's bag from her. "See you at lunch." And without further ado, the pair set off—leaving Serena gazing rather confusedly after them. She knew they had become more friendly since going to France together, but the sight of Dan carrying Blair's books and walking her to class was still one she had thought she'd never live to see.

Her phone buzzed. She checked it and saw the same gossip girl alert Chuck had just read outside in the courtyard. Her eyes widened. Gossip Girl thought Dan and Blair--? She looked up from her phone at Dan and Blair's receding figures in consternation and dawning fear.

"Hey," said a familiar voice from behind her. She turned around slowly and saw Nate.

"I just got back from doing that thing we agreed that I would do," he said mysteriously.

"You don't have to be so cryptic, Nate."

"What?" he protested. "We agreed that no one should find out yet…"

"Yeah, you're right," agreed Serena absently. "Sorry. Do you have it with you?"

Nate patted his coat pocket. "Right here."

Serena nodded slowly. "Okay."

"Everything alright?" asked Nate. "You look a little…worried or something."

"No, I'm fine," said Serena. "It's just…" she paused awkwardly, not knowing how to proceed. "Do you think Dan has developed…feelings for Blair?"

"What?" Nate looked utterly shocked.

"He seems very…protective of her. It's strange."

Nate shook his head vehemently. "No, no way." The very idea seemed to anger him. "That's absolutely crazy."

"They've gotten really close. These days I think he understands her better than I do."

"No he doesn't," Nate said sharply, "you're her best friend. Have been practically since birth. You're totally imagining this."

"It wouldn't be so crazy," said Serena faintly, "after all, they have loads in common—they're both really bookish, intelligent, ambitious—they're both probably headed to Yale—Blair's much smarter than I am, everyone knows that—"

"Shut up," said Nate. "You're being ridiculous. And I always thought Blair was the insecure one."

Serena shook her head mentally. "I won't leap to any conclusions until I've talked to one of them," she decided. "Gossip Girl is usually full of crap anyway."

"You're getting this from Gossip Girl?" Nate raised his eyebrows incredulously. "And you're taking it seriously?"

"Fine." Serena laughed a little in spite of herself. "I'm probably being silly."

"It's at times like these that I realize how well your blonde hair suits you," sniggered Nate. She poked him with her elbow.

"Ow!" He said resentfully.

"Let's go to class before I strangle you," smiled Serena.


	12. Chapter 12: Jealousy

**Poem of Jealousy**

-

I think that man is like a god

Who faces you, and sits by you,

And listens to your gentle words,

And to your silver laughter. But I—

My heart explodes within my breast;

One timid glance, and all my voice is gone,

My tongue breaks, and a subtle flame

Races below my flesh, my eyes

Refuse their sight, my hearing is going,

Cold sweat clings to me, and I shake

From head to toe, my skin the color

Of grass: I am about to die, I think. . . .

-

--Sappho

*

"When exactly will the letters be arriving?" asked Dan. "Tomorrow morning?"

Blair shrugged. "I put Dorota in charge, so they ought to."

"She must be a really great servant for you to express so much confidence in her abilities," Dan smiled ironically.

"No, but she's terrified of me, so she'll carry out my instructions." Blair casually lifted her cappuccino to her lips.

"Aren't you going to eat anything?" Dan demanded, observing her empty tray.

"This cappuccino has milk in it."

"Here," he said, offering half of his peanut butter sandwich.

"Ugh, no," Blair pushed it away. "Get that away from me."

"What's wrong with peanut butter?"

"It's so…plebeian." She wrinkled up her nose.

Dan smirked and took a large bite, smacking his lips loudly and then devouring the rest of the sandwich with gusto.

"You eat like a peasant," said Blair darkly.

"You don't eat at all," Dan rejoined, turning to Serena. "Come on, help me out. We can't let her starve herself."

Serena didn't respond; her nose was buried in a book.

"Are you finished with your salad, S?" asked Blair.

"What? Oh, yeah." Serena absently pushed the salad towards Blair and flipped the page.

"I can't believe you're reading at lunch," said Dan in an incredulous tone.

Serena bristled slightly. "I read plenty," she replied.

"Really? I've never seen—"

"I'm not as dumb as you think I am," she said shortly.

"What?" Dan was taken aback. "Who said you were dumb?"

"Hey guys," came Nate's voice; Dan looked up to see him standing behind Serena; he had apparently brought Eric with them.

"Oh, hey man," he said.

"Sorry I'm late," Nate lowered his bag into a chair. "This girl caused a huge commotion by bursting into tears in the middle of English class."

"Who?" asked Eric suspiciously, sitting down beside his sister.

"I think her name's Penelope. You know, dark hair, dark—"

"What happened exactly?" Eric interrupted.

Nate shrugged. "She got a text message or something; I saw her check her phone, and then she got really upset. She started crying and then ran out of the room."

Eric leaned back in his chair and smirked knowingly.

"What," said Nate, confused, "do you know something about it?"

"It doesn't matter," said Blair, looking up from her salad, "We have more important things to discuss. Do you have it with you?" She said 'it' with special significance.

Nate seated himself by her. He patted his pocket reassuringly.

"Good," she said with a sideways smile. "Good work."

"I aim to please." The two beamed at each other and there was a brief lull in conversation.

Serena keenly observed the interaction between her three friends; it seemed to her that Dan had grown uncomfortable with this silent communion between Nate and Blair, and he hastened to interrupt.

"So are we sure this is all going down tonight?" He asked.

Blair looked away from Nate. "Yes, of course. Why?"

"Has your mom made all the arrangements? Putting together a last-minute party like this can be difficult—"

"I helped," interjected Serena in an annoyed voice. "I even picked the flowers and the stationary, which is weird, because Blair usually loves doing that stuff."

Blair shrugged. "I guess I've had other things on my mind." She took another sip of her cappuccino.

"Don't you think it's amazing," said Nate, still gazing raptly at Blair, "that Gossip Girl hasn't picked up on this yet? I mean, has anyone ever been able to keep this big a bombshell from her for so long?"

"It's certainly one for the ages," Serena muttered darkly, jabbing at a piece of chicken from her salad with her fork.

"Hey," said Blair indignantly, "I thought you said I could eat the salad."

"Fine," Serena threw up her hands, "steal my food. I'm going to the library." She pushed her chair back violently, swung her bag over her shoulder and took off.

"What's up with her?" asked Nate, nonplussed.

"I have no idea," said Dan.

Eric stood up. "I'll go find out," he stated, and followed his sister out of the room.

"You should go after her, too," said Blair to Dan.

"Yeah, man, you should," said Nate a little too eagerly—he seemed to relish the thought of having Blair all to himself.

"I actually have a meeting with my advisor now," replied Dan, checking his watch. "I'll talk to her after class or something."

Dan was gone, and only Blair and Nate were left. Nate was still grinning at her.

"What do you look so happy about?" asked Blair, finishing the salad. "You must be dreading tomorrow morning."

"I think it'll be—interesting, actually," said Nate.

"Interesting," scoffed Blair. "Yes, it certainly will be."

**

When Chuck woke up on Saturday morning he thought it would be an ordinary day. He shook the half-naked girl in his bed awake and asked her to fetch him some coffee—she returned with an espresso and a copy of the Wall Street Journal. He reached into his drawer, withdrew a wad of cash and stuffed it into her palm before nodding dismissively. He checked the stock market. He lit up a cigarette. He waited until it had burned down to the stub before getting out of bed. He dressed himself, slicked back his hair, straightened his tie and left for the office.

Once there he sat behind his desk, turned on his computer.

"Blady," he said offhandedly to his secretary without glancing up at him, "Any mail this morning?"

"Yes sir, I put it on your desk."

He rifled casually through a stack of manila envelopes. There was a smaller envelope towards the bottom that caught his eye; it was smaller than the others, made of a heavy—and expensive—white parchment, with gold edgings. His name was embossed on the front in flowing script. He turned it over, curiously. It was from Cyrus Rose and Eleanor Waldorf Rose. He opened it.

Mr. and Mrs. Rose cordially invite you to an

Engagement Party

Honoring

Blair Waldorf and Nathaniel Archibald

8:00 PM This Evening at the New York Palace Hotel

No RSVP necessary; as the engagement was not announced in advance any and all guests are welcome.

Chuck could literally not believe his eyes. He read it over five times, convinced he had misunderstood. His hands began to shake; he dropped the letter onto the carpet.

"Mr. Bass?" inquired his secretary apprehensively.

It took Chuck several long moments to respond. He was staring at the letter on the carpet, his eyes glassy and unreadable. Finally he lifted his head—he moved in slow motion, like he was under water.

"You can go, Blady," he said in a mechanical voice. "Take the day off."

"What—?"

"Go," Chuck said with finality.

His secretary knew better than to protest further; he exited with as little fuss as possible.

-

Chuck stood still a few minutes, alone in his empty office, still staring down at the letter on the floor.

Then he walked to his desk—his movements laborious and slow, like an old man's—and picked up his phone.

He speed dialed Nate Archibald. The phone rang; it hit voicemail. He dialed the number again, and again—until the ringing echoed in his head long after it had stopped. Then he closed the phone and set it back on his desk.


	13. Chapter 13: The Waste Land

Author's note: This chapter took me _a lot _of effort to write—so please, please review!

Another thing to note: I didn't completely make up the setting. You can find pictures of the New York Palace online; it's really cool.

Lastly, in this chapter I borrowed a paragraph from _Jane Eyre_—my favorite novel of all time—which I will reprint at the end.

-

**Chapter Thirteen: The Waste Land**

-

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow

Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, 20

You cannot say, or guess, for you know only

A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,

And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,

And the dry stone no sound of water. Only

There is shadow under this red rock, 25

(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),

And I will show you something different from either

Your shadow at morning striding behind you

Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;

I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

-

--T.S. Eliot, _The Burial of the Dead_

-

Blair was resplendent in a strapless, sapphire-blue Versace dress that clung to her hips and tiny waist and left bare most of her legs, which were once more shapely since she had gained some weight in France. Her loosened hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, curling up at the tips—her skin was creamy-white, her lips painted scarlet. A brilliant diamond necklace (one that Nate had given her on her fourteenth birthday) was fastened around her throat, and a matching barrette sparkled in her chestnut hair. The brightest gem that adorned her person was on her finger—the Vanderbilt ring shone like a rayed star in the gloom. She was standing in front of the mirror, applying the last touches of make-up. The room was dark except for a small lamp by her mirror—her face was gently bathed in the light, and she glowed.

Dan, Serena and Nate were all standing behind her, watching her silently; she could see them in the reflection of the mirror.

"You look beautiful," said Nate. Dan nodded fervently, and by his side, Serena stiffened.

"Are you ready?" asked Dan at length.

"I guess," Blair sighed, putting down her mascara brush. "I can't believe we're doing this."

"It'll be great," said Dan reassuringly. "Think of it as a turning point in your life. From this moment on, Chuck Bass no longer has any power over you. Any ties that might have bound you to him are officially severed."

Nate snorted.

"What?" Dan turned to look at him.

"Nothing," said Nate, hiding a grin, "it's just that you always sound like such a pretentious git when you talk." Dan shoved him.

"Oh, you are not getting away with that," Nate smirked, lifting his fists and striking a pose, as if getting ready to retaliate.

Serena rolled her eyes. "_Boys," _she said in disgust. "Always so _physical. _Anyway, Blair, after tonight you won't have any more trouble with the mean girls. Getting engaged to an Archibald—even one who's broke—gives you a lot of political capital in this town."

"That's the least of it," Blair replied, staring at the three of them in the mirror. Nate and Dan quit messing about at her expression, and looked back solemnly. She paused and cleared her throat.

"I want my revenge," she said.

The soft lamplight threw into illumination the very serious expressions of her three friends. The four of them, gazing silently into Blair's mirror, seemed to form a chain of communion. They understood one another—a strange, calm energy hummed between them.

After a moment, Dan broke the silence.

"You will have it."

"Then I'm ready." Blair got to her feet. She looked tall and regal in her impossibly high, strappy silver shoes. She patted down her sapphirine dress and picked up her purse. "Let's go," she said, and opened the door of the room firmly so that bright light flowed in from outside; the others followed behind her.

--

"Blair and Nathaniel!" called Eleanor Waldorf's voice. "Here they are!" Nate and Blair were pulled away from the others and ushered into the spotlight to the sound of applause—Blair looked out onto a sea of faces; so many. She had not expected so many. A bright light shone on her—there was a buzzing in her ears, she tried to listen to Cyrus as he lifted a glass of champagne and made a toast.

At the other end of the great hall—in the darkest corner of the room—behind throngs of people, a dark figure leaned against a Grecian column. He was out of place in all the splendor of the golden hall; the gilded walls, the sparkling, radiant chandeliers, the band which played a slow waltz as couples danced as if in a dream, the lavish dress, the laughter, the windows that let in glimpses of deep blue sky—it was twilight—which faded back into gold. Against all this opulence, the figure reclined in shadow; he wore a black suit, which was dusted carelessly with ash—he was smoking, though to do so in the hall was forbidden.

When the young girl was swept into the bright light at the front of the hall, he lifted his hand to his eyes, as if they were dazzled. Cyrus Rose gave a speech, then Eleanor—then Harold, then Nate's mother—each time the beautifully-dressed, laughing crowd lifted their glasses and cheered.

Her throat, her hair and hands sparkled cold with jewels—they glittered on her snowy skin like frost. Under the white light her skin had turned to ivory, though her lips were still scarlet. In her shining blue dress, with her dark hair and her lambent eyes beneath dark lashes, she was transformed entirely into the ice queen he knew she was.

She raised her pale hand, that the ring might be admired by the multitudes, and spoke into the microphone—"yes," she said, "Nathaniel and I have always been in love; we were childhood sweethearts." The tall fair-haired boy beside her slipped an arm about her waist. "We're postponing the wedding until after we graduate high school, of course."

"Isn't it romantic?" sighed Eleanor.

The bar was in full swing, and floating rounds of cocktails permeated the crowds until the air was alive with chatter and laughter.

He observed the clusters of white lilies heaped on every table that emitted a sickeningly sweet perfume and wafted through the hall—Blair would not have chosen those. How could she let someone else pick out the flowers for her own engagement party?

He shook his head to clear it.

He couldn't stand the glitz, the showy splendor, the heady perfume any longer. He put out his cigarette by crushing it against the column, with a total disregard for niceties, and left through the back door.

-

"Tell them," said Eleanor to Blair, "tell them about the first moment you realized you wanted to marry Nate. How old were you? Five? Six?" She laughed and turned to the nearest circle of guests. "My daughter is such a romantic."

Blair looked around dizzily at the expectant faces. "I'll let Nate take over for a minute," she said in a low voice to her mother, "I need some fresh air." She handed Nate the microphone, which he took with slight surprise, and excused herself. She rushed through the crowds of people—many of whom called out her name, or reached out to pat her back, or make some similar gesture of congratulation. She felt lightheaded, almost drunk, though she'd only had one glass of champagne.

She opened the heavy oaken doors of the hall; they swung shut behind her and she let out a sigh of relief. She tripped down the lush red carpet, down the snowy marble staircase, past the glass front doors and out into the courtyard. The cold air hit her full force and filled her lungs. The stone courtyard was lovely and still in the moonlight. She could as yet faintly hear the music from the hall. It was playing a slow, mournful waltz called "Isn't It Romantic" which she knew well; it was the theme song of Sabrina, one of her cherished childhood collection of Audrey Hepburn films. This was the engagement party she had always dreamed of—it was suited to her precisely, down to every last detail.

No sooner had she registered this thought that she felt her breath arrested in her throat—there was a dark figure standing by the fountain. A man. She drew closer, trodding lightly as she could in her silver heels, the better to see who it was.

And there was Chuck, standing with a glass of whiskey in his hand. He held it up to his lips; his back was turned to her, so she couldn't see his face, but with a quick eye—almost an intuition—she observed all the small details of his appearance, the changes since she had last seen him. His hair was disheveled and wanted cutting, his thin shoulders were hunched under his suit; he had lost weight.

She stood rooted to the spot; all her nerves were unstrung_. Well, Blair, _she thought to herself, _he's not a ghost, after all. And you knew that he might show up tonight. _She could not understand why the sight of him set her trembling, why she had completely lost her voice and the power of motion in his presence.

_I know another way back to the house,_ she realized after a moment. _I will go back as soon as I can force myself to move—I don't need to make an absolute fool of myself. _It did not signify if she knew twenty ways; for he had seen her.

The courtyard was sheltered from the traffic and chaos of New York City's streets, so all Blair could hear was the waltz, the sighing breeze, the tinkling water of the fountain. He had turned to face her and stood silent. His face was cast in shadow; she recognized him, but it was possible that he had not recognized her. It was dark in the courtyard with only the light of the moon. She turned around slowly, her heart in her mouth, her heels tapping lightly against the flagged stone floor.

"Blair."

She winced.

"Blair." He stepped closer—his hand reached out to her shoulder.

"What?" She flinched away from his touch and backed up several steps, so there was space between them. "What do you want?"

The moon was illuminating his face now—she looked upon it. It was so familiar, and yet so changed—his eyes were darkly shadowed, the line of his mouth tense and unyielding.

"Is it true?" he asked in a ghostly voice that was almost a whisper.

She shuddered involuntarily. "Is what true?" she said, deliberately misunderstanding him. Her eyes fixed on the pulse in his throat; it was beating wildly.

"You are engaged." It was a statement, not a question.

"Yes I am," she answered coldly. She chanced another look at his eyes—their expression was haunted. She looked away.

"Do you…" he had trailed off, as if he couldn't bear to finish the question. Cold sweat beaded his brow. "Do you love him?" he finished.

"Yes," she said baldly.

He leaned forward, suddenly, to grasp her chin and lift her face so that her eyes locked with his. She let out a gasp.

"Don't lie to me," he said harshly. His two hands were on her neck, cupping her face. His thumb brushed her lips, softly, like a moth's wing. She could hear him breathing loudly; her own heart was beating like a drum and pounding in her ears.

"Let go of me," she said.

He withdrew his hands and stepped back, held them out in front of him as if they'd been burned.

Then they fell back to his sides, and he looked at her once more. "Answer my question," he said.

She hesitated for a moment.

"I could," she finally said, lifting her chin defiantly. "I could love him. I will—he is worthy of my love, and he returns it. I will be happy with him."

Chuck said nothing for a moment; he stared down at his hands, clenched at his sides.

"You wouldn't have been happy with me," he said, and there was a tremor in his voice.

"No," she agreed. "I wouldn't. No one ever would."

He nodded, still not meeting her eyes.

"You should leave," she said at length. "No one here has any more use for you."

He stared blindly into the distance.

"Just go, Chuck."

"Fine," he said. "But tell me. Why are you doing this? If you like Nathaniel, why don't you just become his girlfriend again?"

She blinked. "I'm burning my bridges."

He nodded again, and turned to leave. She watched him walking, slowly, towards the great iron gates that led to the street. He was still holding his whiskey in his hand; he threw it to the floor, where it broke into a million pieces against the stone, spraying amber liquid and shards of glass. Then he was gone.

**

*

Extract from _Jane Eyre_ (this passage describes the first meeting between Jane and Mr. Rochester after a long separation.)

-

Well, he is not a ghost; yet every nerve I have is unstrung: for a

moment I am beyond my own mastery. What does it mean? I did not

think I should tremble in this way when I saw him, or lose my voice

or the power of motion in his presence. I will go back as soon as I

can stir: I need not make an absolute fool of myself. I know

another way to the house. It does not signify if I knew twenty

ways; for he has seen me.


	14. Chapter 14: Closing Like a Fist

MAYAKOVSKY

1

My heart's aflutter!

I am standing in the bath tub

crying. Mother, mother

who am I? If he

will just come back once

and kiss me on the face

his coarse hair brush

my temple, it's throbbing!

-

then I can put on my clothes

I guess, and walk the streets.

2

I love you. I love you,

but I'm turning to my verses

and my heart is closing

like a fist.

-

Words! be

sick as I am sick, swoon,

roll back your eyes, a pool,

-

and I'll stare down

at my wounded beauty

which at best is only a talent

for poetry.

-

Cannot please, cannot charm or win

what a poet!

and the clear water is thick

-

with bloody blows on its head.

I embraced a cloud,

but when I soared

it rained.

-

Frank O'Hara

-

-

Blair stood quite still in the empty stone courtyard, listening to the cold tinkle of water falling from the fountain and the wind whistling through the chestnut trees. The waltz had ended, and she heard no music from inside. It was January in New York City—she could see her breath frosting the air as she breathed in and out—in and out—but only a little; she was hardly breathing at all. She touched her fingertips to her face; they were cold as marble. Only her thin blue dress protected her from the night air and it had begun to snow, but she didn't even shiver. She felt oddly calm and detached. She looked up at the stars and the infinite dark sky—she felt so small against all that boundless darkness. Some snowflakes fell on her face; she didn't even blink. They clung to her eyelashes. She sank down on the stone rim of the fountain and trailed her fingers in the icy water, her face still upturned to the sky. Her fingers did not feel the cold water. She felt nothing at all.

A light beamed out in the darkness, suddenly; the front doors had opened and a tall, fair-haired boy had stepped outside.

The young girl sitting by the fountain was still staring upwards blankly, oblivious. The boy came closer, peering anxiously through the gloom. He saw the reclining figure of a young girl with skin pale as marble, utterly silent and still with upturned face and a hand resting in the water of a fountain. She was dressed in shimmering sapphire and there were pearls and diamonds fastened to her curling dark hair. At first he thought she was a statue, so otherworldly she seemed.

He came closer.

"Blair?" he asked, shocked. "What are you doing? It's freezing out here!"

The girl turned slowly to look at him, her expression blank.

"Blair," he repeated, "how long have you been out here?"

She still didn't reply.

"You've been missing for half an hour," he pressed. "Have you been here dressed in _that _for thirty minutes?"

He took off his jacket and put it around her shoulders and rubbed her upper arms to keep her warm. She didn't move.

"Blair," he sighed. "You're so strange sometimes. I hardly know what to say to you."

"What's there to say?" Her voice was halting and slow; it looked like her lips were numb.

"Well, actually," Nate replied, raising his eyebrows, "there was something I wanted to talk to you about, but it looks like now isn't the right time."

He watched her closely; the life was coming back into her eyes. It looked like she was stirring, awakening from some deep sleep. She started to shiver inside his coat.

"Come on," he said, offering a hand. "Stand up. Let's go back inside."

She took his hand—her own fingers were like wands of ice, and his eyes took on a worried expression.

"I'm fine," she said, answering his look rather than his words. She got to her feet.

"What was it you wanted to say to me?"

"Later," replied Nate. "First let's get you warm."

"No," she answered firmly, drawing the jacket close about her. "I want to stay here a little bit longer."

"Blair, I don't think—"

"I'm staying here," she reiterated. She looked determined, and when Blair Waldorf was determined about something there was nothing Nate or anyone could do about it.

"Fine," Nate muttered, recognizing this.

"What did you want to say?" she repeated.

"Well," he began cautiously, "just that…well, you might not have noticed this, but—my feelings," he paused awkwardly, "for you…have changed. A lot. I really like you, Blair." He turned away as he continued so he wouldn't have to look at her in his embarrassment. "Actually, I'm crazy about you."

_I'm crazy about you. _The words echoed distantly in her ears. Such a typical, normal thing for a teenager to say about the girl he had a crush on.

He turned back to look her in the eye, blushing a bit. "I know this isn't a real engagement," he went on, haltingly, "and you probably just think of me as a friend, which makes sense, but…I don't know, we're going to be in this together for a while…at least until school ends…and I've been engaged to you before, Blair, but it didn't work out, obviously—" he was having trouble expressing his thoughts. Nate had never been very articulate, she thought dimly.

"What I'm saying is," he continued, exasperated with himself, "it doesn't have to end this time, unless you want it to." She raised her eyebrows.

"I know that sounds presumptuous. But I love you, Blair, and if in six months or so you decide you feel the same way, I would be very happy. So I was just hoping you could give it—give us—another chance." His cheeks had flushed dark red and he was having trouble maintaining eye contact.

The first real declaration of love she had ever received, she noted absently. Also the first real proposal. How different it would have been if it had come from someone else…someone with darker eyes, more complex and less limpid than the set she was faced with now—someone braver, or perhaps just more reckless—he would have looked at her straight, with calm confidence, and presumed that she would agree to marry him. Arrogant, really, now that she thought about it. Or maybe he would act completely differently from her imaginings. It was impossible to tell, because she would never hear a declaration of love from Chuck Bass; it was not in his nature to make one.

"Blair?" Nate looked anxious and embarrassed, and Blair realized she should have said something. She had been silent for too long—the silence was stretching out and out, unspooling, tightening. She could see the pain in his eyes.

"Sure, Nate," she said, finally. "I guess we could try dating." The words sounded silly to her ears, but not to Nate; he grinned.

"That's great," he said happily. He was not an observant person; he did not see the vacant expression in her eyes, the tightening of her jaw. She was smiling at him, but it was a small, fake smile; more a tightening of the lips than anything else. He leaned forward to kiss her. She thought, inexplicably, of Chuck's hands on her neck and jaw, his thumb tracing her bottom lip, less than half an hour ago. The expression in his eyes when she told him to let go.

Nate was unquestionably better-looking than Chuck, she thought now, stroking his check softly while he kissed her. He had the features of a male model—not to mention the lithe, athletic and sculpted body. He was unquestionably a better person than Chuck was. He had been a neglectful boyfriend in the past, it was true, but the blame didn't rest entirely with him; she could admit that now. He had been too young, he had been forced into it by his family. And Blair had been a difficult girlfriend; she had had her rigid notions of how things should be and she could not tolerate that reality should be any different from her perfect dream world. She had stifled him when he did not fit that mold of what her perfect boyfriend should be, when he was not a one-dimensional prince charming. She was beginning to grow out of it now, thank god.

But Nate was wonderful—he loved her now despite all her insecurities and despite their history. He was generous and affectionate—never cruel. He respected her—he would never humiliate her. And on top of that he was beautiful. With him would come the Archibald legacy, the Vanderbilt ring, security, a high rank in the elite circles of the Upper East Side.

Of course, none of it mattered. Chuck's lightest touch had sent electric shocks up and down her spine; during those few inconsequential seconds with Chuck in the courtyard she had felt alive for the first time in months. Now, Nate was kissing her with all his might, and she felt nothing at all. Worse than nothing. She felt hollow.


	15. Chapter 15: The Sharp Edges of the Night

Chapter Fifteen: The Sharp Edges of the Night

Taxi

-

When I go away from you

The world beats dead

Like a slackened drum.

I call out for you against the jutted stars

And shout into the ridges of the wind.

Streets coming fast,

One after the other,

Wedge you away from me,

And the lamps of the city prick my eyes

So that I can no longer see your face.

Why should I leave you,

To wound myself upon the sharp edges of the night?

-

--Amy Lowell

_It was a really, really bad idea to come here, _Chuck realized as he stared at the young girls on the stage. It brought back memories—of course it did, how could he not have realized that it would? He was an idiot. A complete and utter moron. His eye was caught by a slim, pale-skinned girl in a short white dress—she had brown hair, though it was not the same rich shade of chestnut—no, the resemblance was not so striking. He looked away, tried to interest himself in a redhead to her left.

_Maybe, though_, he thought, _I didn't just come here because I own this club and like it; maybe I wanted to be reminded of that night. _He shook his head to clear it and ordered another drink. He was not a fan of introspection.

_If my father could see me now, _he smiled grimly to himself, _if he could see how sentimental I've become…_ he frowned. His drink arrived and he tossed it back, enjoying the burn in his throat.

One of his scantily clad employees was sidling up to him on the sofa. She placed her hand under his chin and pulled it towards her.

"Hi, Chuck," she breathed. "Long time no see."

Another of his employees—this one was Asian—was sitting on his other side.

"Not tonight, ladies," he said in a voice that was almost harsh, staring straight in front of him.

The two looked surprised and affronted; they left.

He remembered sitting in this exact place not very long ago, soon after he got back to the city—she had followed him here, stood in front of him and watched him dismiss those girls, those girls who were living proof that he had not been faithful to her. She had tried not to look hurt; her lower lip had trembled.

He had said something cruel to her then. He did not remember what exactly. He was good at blocking out these memories.

Tonight he would not be able to distract himself with sex and alcohol. He looked back at the stage; the slim brunette was still dancing. He watched her through a smoke-haze for a long time, perhaps frightening her with his dark scowl, until she left the stage. He realized that he had developed a massive headache, probably from the smoke and alcohol and the thumping, relentless beat of the music.

He got up and left, eager for fresh air. He still felt the pain pulsing behind his eyes. Maybe it was a migraine. Maybe it was something else. He walked towards his new apartment, thankful it was only two blocks away. He stopped for a moment and clutched at his head with his hands, then blinked back the pain and continued. _Maybe, _he thought, _I'll take a cold shower, and then…_ he winced. He felt terrible, in myriad ways he didn't care to contemplate. _And then, if I still feel like this…_he lost his train of thought again; the pain was too distracting and consuming. _Maybe I'll go back out on the street and find something to make me feel better. _ His eyes gleamed in the darkness. He had never tried anything but alcohol, marijuana and hash before. Maybe it was time.

Suddenly, he heard a strange, shrill noise from somewhere close by; it sounded like a woman's scream. He heard scuffling, the sound of smashing glass, another scream that was cut off abruptly. He sped up, adrenaline surging through his veins, his blood pounding in his head. He began to run.

**

"Serena." She heard Dan's voice behind her; she didn't turn around. She rolled her eyes and drained her glass of champagne.

"_Serena," _Dan repeated, exasperated. He walked around until he was facing her. "Why have you been in such a bad mood around me lately?"

She put down the glass and crossed her arms.

"No reason," she said coolly.

"What is it?" he was annoyed.

"Nothing. Why are you wasting your time nagging me?"

He looked taken aback. "What?"

"Go find Blair," she said dismissively. "You and Nate can fight over her again. Find out who the dominant male is."

"What do you mean 'fight over her again'?" he asked, nonplussed. He was beginning to feel very confused; he wondered if he had taken on Nate's habitual puzzled expression. "And how would we find out who the 'dominant male' is?" he was slightly amused in spite of himself.

"I don't know," Serena muttered darkly. "You can poke at each other with sticks. Or any other sharp, pointy object; I don't mind, I'd enjoy watching either way."

"Serena, what in god's name are you talking about?"

She pursed her lips angrily and didn't say anything.

"Does it bother you that I'm friends with Blair?" he asked, hesitantly. "I know it's a little weird, but…"

"Right," said Serena sarcastically, "you're _friends."_

Dan looked at her in shock. "You think I like Blair?"

Serena snorted. He took that as a yes.

"Don't be ridiculous, Serena."

"I'm not being ridiculous!" She picked up her purse and stormed away from the table; he followed her.

"You and Nate are mad at each other all the time, you hold her hand and do cutesy things for her, you defend her _to me—_"

"Serena." Dan looked like he was fighting the urge to laugh. He quailed a bit at her furious expression, and became more serious.

"Serena. Blair is my friend and I care about her very much. I do _not_ like her that way. I like you."

Serena said nothing for a moment, and then smiled.

"Really?"

He rested his hands on her shoulders, and she leaned into him. "Yes."

"Why didn't you say anything?" she asked.

"For Christ's sake Serena, you still have a boyfriend." He was exasperated again.

She furrowed her brow in confusion. "Oh, you mean Aaron?"

His expression was incredulous.

"I broke up with him weeks ago," she said.

"_What?"_

"Yeah," she admitted, with an embarrassed half smile and shrug. "I sent him an email from the internet café in France."

He was stunned for a moment, and then let out a happy laugh. "Poor Aaron."

She glanced up momentarily, past Dan's shoulder, and saw Blair standing beyond the opened doors of the hall, on the crimson carpet of the staircase, looking very white.

"Hm," she said, worried. "Hold that thought. I need to go check on something."

"You're all right?" he asked.

"Yeah." She smiled and kissed him lightly. "I'm sorry I was paranoid about Blair."

"That's okay. Are you coming back soon?"

"Yes, in a few minutes."

"Okay. Want me to get you another drink?"

"Sure," she smiled. "A glass of champagne. We can toast to our new future."

"Two glasses of champagne coming right up," he grinned. Serena, a wide smile plastered on her face, wended her way through the crowd towards the heavy oaken doors of the hall.


	16. Chapter 16: Song of Songs

**Author's note: **I feel I should warn readers that the story is taking a rather sinister turn in this chapter. Don't read if you aren't comfortable with that. This is not a fluffy story; at least not yet. :)

Also, sorry it's taking longer than usual to update. I'm taking many classes this semester, and frankly, these chapters are harder to write than the earlier ones. Enjoy!

-

-

**Chapter Sixteen: The Song of Songs **

-

-

"I opened to my beloved; but my beloved had withdrawn himself, and was gone: my soul failed when he spake: I sought him, but I could not find him; I called him, but he gave me no answer.

The watchmen that went about the city found me, they smote me, they wounded me; the keepers of the walls took away my veil from me.

I charge you, O daughters of Jerusalem, if ye find my beloved, that ye tell him, that I am sick of love."

-

--Song of Solomon שיר השירים

-

-

**

***

Blair had been watching her two best friends in the ballroom. She had always had a sense and appreciation for the irony of things; she smiled a bit when she saw how easily Dan and Serena could put their problems behind them and happily resume their relationship, effortlessly, as if they had never been forced apart by many insurmountable problems. But then again, all their problems had been external, she reasoned; imposed by family and society. When it was just the two of them, they got along easily and perfectly, and always happily. She and Chuck had faced no such restraints after her relationship with Nate had ended. The problem was Blair and Chuck themselves. She stopped smiling as she arrived at this conclusion and sat down heavily at the top of the grand staircase.

She saw Serena say goodbye to Dan and try to make her way through the crowds towards Blair. She had on a lemon silk gown that seemed to enhance her natural glow and set off her brash, golden hair.

_Well, _Blair thought wistfully, _Serena always finds a way to be happy. _

"Blair!" said Serena from the bottom of the staircase. "What are you doing up there?"

Blair shrugged. "Thinking."

Serena climbed up the staircase and perched herself on the top step next to her friend.

"About what?" she inquired.

"Nothing in particular," Blair sighed. "Well. There's one thing I might as well mention. Nate likes me."

"I know," smiled Serena. "Didn't you also know?"

"Yes, but I didn't realize the extent of it."

Serena looked at her questioningly.

"He sort of proposed to me," said Blair matter-of-factly.

"_What?_"

"Hmm, yes," said Blair. "I think it's a bit premature." She paused. "Or overdue, depending on how you look at it."

Serena looked confused. "You're taking this very…calmly."

Blair sighed again.

"Um, what did you say?" Serena asked after a moment; she had still not recovered from her shock.

"Regarding what?" asked Blair.

"His proposal, of course!"

"Oh. I agreed to start dating again," Blair replied. "I didn't take the whole marriage thing seriously, obviously."

"Well," said Serena after a moment of thought, "that's great! Nate gets a little overenthusiastic sometimes." She smiled at Blair brightly, whose expression remained neutral.

"Isn't it?" She faltered a bit.

"It would be if I liked him."

"You don't?" asked Serena, apparently disappointed. "Not at all?"

"No," said Blair sharply.

"Why not?"

"Oh, please, Serena."

"You've always liked him," Serena pouted. Blair could see that her friend was annoyed with her. It was rather mystifying.

"I did," Blair replied. "And then I grew up."

"B, you only stopped liking him because you fell in love with Chuck Bass—"

"That's precisely what I mean."

"Oh, no, Blair," Serena frowned, "I thought you were getting past that."

Blair snorted. "A month in France and I forget all about him? Was that what you had in mind?"

"Something like that," Serena muttered. "Honestly, Blair, he's not worth it; you can't keep beating yourself up like this."

"I'm not beating myself up anymore," asserted Blair. She was still white. "But I have to believe that he _is _worth it."

"_Why?_" asked Serena, exasperated.

"If he's not worth it, then I'm not worth it either."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"He and I are the same," Blair explained with calm conviction. "I don't expect you to understand. But I could never be happy with someone like Nate. With him, I was always pretending, always putting on an act; I was trying to be princess Blair, high-society Blair, Blair the Yale student…" she trailed off, uncertain how to make her meaning clear to Serena.

Serena wrung her hands in frustration, and exclaimed: "I don't understand why you can't just…put Chuck behind you, and find someone else to be happy with!"

This was a solution that might work for Serena Van Der Woodsen; but not for Blair Waldorf. The truth is, thought Blair, that despite her standing in society, her wealth and her beauty—Serena was a very ordinary person. She could never fully understand her best friend, never begin to grasp the complex web of insecurities, memories, experiences, the fierce intelligence, all the inherent contradictions of her personality and all the deep flaws that made up her identity. Dan had come a bit closer; he knew what is was like to be an outsider, to always have to struggle to fit a mold one was expected to fill. She recognized this empathy and so she allowed him to see a more vulnerable side of her than she would even expose to Serena.

But there was only one person in the world that understood her fully. And though she might hate him right now—she certainly had good reason to—their bond was more powerful than any such transitory emotion. She thought, suddenly, of a quote from a book she had read for her English class by Elie Wiesel:

"_The opposite of love is not hate; it is indifference." _

She would never be indifferent.

"Serena," she said abruptly, still reeling from the force of her revelation, "I'm going home."

"What? It's only eleven—"

"I'm tired," she said firmly.

"It's your own engagement party!"

"I'm really tired, S," said Blair pleadingly, putting on a puppy-face to manipulate her soft-hearted friend. "Please. I'm exhausted. Will you please say goodbye to everyone for me?"

Serena relented. "Even Nate?"

"Especially Nate."

Serena sighed.

Blair got unsteadily to her feet and climbed down the marble staircase carefully in her high silver heels, only wobbling a bit. She went out the front door without a glance back. Serena watched her leave with a slight frown.

Blair shivered when she got outside. She was not impervious to the cold anymore. She had forgotten her coat, but she kept going, unwilling to return to the Palace and retrieve it, as if going back into the warmth and company of others might undermine her determination. She was not headed home, of course. She had an errand to run; one that would require some courage. She hobbled along slowly in her painful shoes. Her destination was not very far away, and she doubted she would get lost, though she was not very familiar with the area. She had never been here alone at night.

As she made progress down the dark and winding streets, the lights and sound of revelry from her own engagement party faded and dimmed. She could hear nothing but the occasional car that drove by, the wind whispering in the trees. She was passing the bar now, she realized, the one where she had danced, so long ago—she repressed the memory. The night here was so silent and still. The street was lit only by the occasional streetlamp, which illuminated the young girl's thin figure, her shimmering blue dress, her thin shoulders, the jewels clustered in her hair and on her neck.

She heard a noise suddenly; a thud, something like quiet footsteps behind her. She tensed; she felt a rush of adrenaline and the blood pounded in her ears—she sped up, trying to walk as swiftly and as softly as possible. It was impossible in those shoes.

An animal—it looked like a cat—darted out from behind a trashcan, upsetting the metal lid that lay beside it on the ground so that it made a clanging noise against the concrete.

Blair felt a moment of relief. Perhaps the cat was all she had heard.

Her mouth puckered in distaste. She did not like this neighborhood; it was almost slummy. Why would Chuck come live here?

When she had all but relaxed, she heard the footsteps again; closer. In horror she strained to listen; there was more than one pair, and they were walking quickly. As the cat dashed across the street, alarmed by the noise of the metal lid, Blair heard a snicker.

_Oh no, _she thought, _oh no no no no. This isn't happening._

She walked even faster; the strangers behind her also picked up their pace.

"Where are you going, baby?" She heard a man's voice behind her. "Where are you running off to?"

"Why in such a hurry?" A different voice. "We've got all night." She heard some dark laughter.

_How many are there_? She thought hysterically. She felt dizzy with fear; she was breathing in short, sharp bursts and her lungs were straining for air.

There was a streetlamp about ten feet away; she ran towards it and the light it afforded. When she reached it she looked back; she saw three men lurking in the shadows, approaching slowly, predators circling their prey. One smirked from

within his dark hood.

And that was when she began to scream.


	17. Chapter 17: Two Eyes Like All Eyes

**Love**

-

What's wrong with you, with us,

what's happening to us?

Ah our love is a harsh cord

that binds us wounding us

and if we want

to leave our wound,

to separate,

it makes a new knot for us and condemns us

to drain our blood and burn together.

-

What's wrong with you? I look at you

and I find nothing in you but two eyes

like all eyes, a mouth

lost among a thousand mouths that I have kissed, more beautiful,

a body just like those that have slipped

beneath my body without leaving any memory.

-

And how empty you went through the world

like a wheat-colored jar

without air, without sound, without substance!

I vainly sought in you

depth for my arms

that dig, without cease, beneath the earth:

beneath your skin, beneath your eyes,

nothing,

beneath your double breast scarcely

raised

a current of crystalline order

that does not know why it flows singing.

Why, why, why,

my love, why?

-

Pablo Neruda

-

She was screaming, and the men had begun to circle closer. One of them began walking towards her directly with a purposeful stride and a dark gleam in his eye. She reached into her purse, shuffling through the contents frantically, and her hand closed upon a bottle of perfume. It was the only hard object she could find. She threw the glass bottle as hard as she could at the approaching man, and her aim, amazingly, was good; it hit his head with a hard thunk and then shattered on the ground, spraying the cold winter air with the delicate scent of roses. The man fell over, apparently unconscious; for a second she was frozen, staring at him lying on the ground, and she felt a moment of wild triumph. But then she remembered, of course, that there were two other men; and she had nothing left to defend herself with.

They looked angry now, and no longer amused. They hovered for a moment, as if afraid she would take out another heavy object from her purse, but soon they saw from her look of panic that she had nothing left. They were coming closer and closer—suddenly one was by her side; he put his hand over her mouth to muffle her, she bit at it—he let go for a moment with a cry of pain and she screamed,

"Help me! HELP ME!!" at the top of her lungs, but his hand cut her off again, and she felt like she was choking. He reached around her and grabbed her arm, pulling it hard; she was clutching the streetlamp with all her strength, sure that the light was the only safety she had. They would try to drag her to a dark alley. She clung to the pole with all the strength of desperation, and the man was practically dislodging her arm socket without getting her to move an inch. She gasped in pain.

"_Fuck_," he said. He glanced at the other man, who was looking up and down the street nervously. "Grab the bitch's other arm," he growled.

After all, she was only an underweight teenage girl—between the two of them they had no trouble, though she kicked and tried to scream. She was dragging her feet so much that one of them actually picked her up off the ground, holding her against him—and helping himself to a generous feel—as they ran as quickly as they could away from the light until they reached the alley. Then the man held her up against the wall—she could feel the rough brick pressing against her unprotected skin—and tried to shove her dress up around her thighs; she resisted enough that he was frustrated and simply tore at the silk, and paused to crush her lips against his own. His dark stubble rubbed against her cheek and jaw, and one of his hands began to close tightly around her throat, so that she gasped, and as he thrust his tongue into her mouth dark spots began to swim in her vision. She tried to hold on to consciousness, and summoned a last great effort—she bit down hard on his tongue, she felt a salty taste in her mouth and then heard him yelp in pain and draw in his breath sharply—and then in fury the man slammed her hard against the brick wall, and she felt a slicing pain in her head as her skull connected with the brick—and then she saw stars, and then she blackness closed in, and she saw nothing.

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"Blair_. Blair."_ She heard a low whisper, faintly; there was darkness behind her eyes, and a great deal of pain.

"Blair! Can you hear me?"

There it was again.

"BLAIR!" And there was a raw edge of panic behind the voice that, strangely, began to sound familiar.

"Please, please say something! Oh my god, Blair—oh god, please—"

Yes. It was familiar. It was the most familiar voice in the world. She fought the blackness as hard as she could so that he would see that she was alive—she wanted desperately to soothe that raw edge in his voice. But she could not move.

She lay absolutely still and cold in his arms, like a lifeless statue—a thin thread of scarlet began to seep from beneath her hair and wind down her face. He touched it gently with trembling fingers and held the blood up to his eyes in horror.

"Don't do this to me, Blair—you can't leave me here like this," he groaned in a sudden paroxysm of ungovernable passion; "I WON'T LET YOU, YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ME—!"

He checked her pulse frantically; but either because it was very weak or because he was too excited to concentrate on it, he could hear nothing.

He gathered her body in his arms so that her head could rest against his chest and got to his feet; her cold, lifeless legs swung freely over his arm. The two figures—the boy with a sharp, burning anguish in his eyes, cradling the unconscious pale girl in her torn silk dress—made a strange pieta, standing in the dark alley in the snow.

He stared down intently at her small, pale face, as if he could make her eyes open simply with the force of his will.

"Come back," he said fiercely. He bent over her head so that her blue lips were almost against his cheek, but he could not feel her breath against his skin. He strained himself—he waited—he could feel and hear nothing. He ran his fingers over her lips—they were still, and cold as ice—and his eyes lit up dangerously. He was sure, now, that she had died.

"Come back," he repeated with frightful vehemence, "come back—even though you're dead!" His arms that were holding her shook violently, and strange gleams passed through his eyes; the muscles of his face were contorted in agony. The girl still did not move.

"It's my fault you're dead," he said in a low, harsh whisper, after a moment. "Everything that's happened to you is my fault, and no one else's! Well, I've all but killed you—come back and haunt me, then!" He groaned in fury and despair.

"The murdered DO haunt their murderers, I know," he said. "I know that ghosts HAVE wandered on earth. Be with me always - take any form - drive me mad!"

He sank down to his knees, still holding her in his arms, his whole body shaking.

"Just don't leave me here—alone—where I can't find you! Oh, god—"

Dry sobs were racking his entire body. He couldn't speak anymore; his grief was beyond words. He held her in his arms, kneeling in the snow at a loss—time stretched on and on—it was horrifying, he could not think through the horror and pain. The minutes ticked by.

She had heard him, dimly—it felt like she was trapped at the bottom of the ocean, and she could hear his voice through walls of water. She tried to push the waves off her and swim back to the surface—but it was so heavy, and so dark.

The sounds of his grief were beginning to register; could it be that he was crying _for her? _She could scarcely believe it. She tried harder.

"Ch—Ch—" she gasped, unable to get the name out fully; she twitched. His arms stiffened around her.

"_Blair?" _he whispered through tears that scalded his eyes. "_Blair, you're alive?" _his voice was thin, ragged—and incredulous. He blinked furiously.

The world was coming back into focus for her, slowly.

"Ch—Chuck," she said. She was shivering.

He stared at her wide-eyed, apparently stunned into silence.

She winced; her head hurt.

"Wh—what happened?" She opened her eyes.

Her teeth were chattering.

Chuck let out a gasp of relief.

"Jesus, Blair—" he choked, "you—you scared me to death!" He pulled her against him even tighter, so his body heat might warm her.

"I'm fine," she said in a surprised voice; "I just hit my head, but I'm feeling better."

"Thank god," he said breathlessly, rocking back and forth. "Thank god."

"What happened?" She asked again.

He looked down at her worriedly, and winced when he saw the blood that matted her hair. He stood up again, still holding her very carefully and gently.

"Where are we going?" She asked faintly.

"The hospital," he replied in a shaky voice.

"I want to sleep," she murmured.

"You can't," he said more firmly. "You must have a concussion."

"Are you okay?" she asked. "You were upset—I could hear you—"

He let out a strangled laugh. "Am _I _okay?" He shook his head incredulously as he began to walk back to the main street. "You almost die, and you ask me if _I'm _okay?"

"I didn't almost die," she snapped. Some of the color was coming back to her cheeks. "I just hit my head."

"Shh," he said, amazement still written on his face, and he chuckled dryly. "I'm looking for a cab."  
She was silent the whole trip to the hospital, and so was he; from time to time he looked down at her and touched her lips with his fingers and checked her pulse, as if to be sure she was still breathing. He seemed somewhat dazed.

The doctor cleaned her up and said it wasn't serious, and he laughed as though he could not believe it.

"She was probably out for a few minutes, right?" asked the doctor as he filled out a prescription for pain medication.

"Yes," Chuck said numbly.

"Don't worry, it's not a very serious concussion. What happened?"

"She hit her head," said Chuck in a tightly restrained voice. The doctor nodded, and did not ask any more questions. He was the private family doctor, and Chuck could trust him to be discreet.

She was so much better that she could walk on her own now; and somewhat warmer, because Chuck had wrapped her tightly in his coat. They took a taxi back to his apartment—she did not want to go home, and he did not insist—and she fell asleep immediately on his bed, still wearing his coat.

He removed it gently, trying not to disturb her—and he saw bruise marks in the shape of fingers on her arms and on her throat. He flinched, but said nothing, afraid to wake her. He drew the blankets up over her and settled himself beside her, on top of the covers, still wearing all his clothes. He drew an arm around her protectively, and settled in to watch her while she slept.

-

-

-

-

-

-

Author's note: I borrowed a passage in this chapter, too, from the other Bronte sister. This is a very famous scene from _Wuthering Heights_ that takes place after the death of Cathy:

-

"May she wake in torment!' he cried, with frightful vehemence, stamping his foot, and groaning in a sudden paroxysm of ungovernable passion. 'Why, she's a liar to the end! Where is she? Not THERE - not in heaven - not perished - where? Oh! you said you cared nothing for my sufferings! And I pray one prayer - I repeat it till my tongue stiffens - Catherine Earnshaw, may you not rest as long as I am living; you said I killed you - haunt me, then! The murdered DO haunt their murderers, I believe. I know that ghosts HAVE wandered on earth. Be with me always - take any form - drive me mad! only DO not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God! it is unutterable! I CANNOT live without my life! I CANNOT live without my soul!"


	18. Chapter 18: Meditations in an Emergency

**Author's note: ** I don't know if any of you are fans of _Mad Men_—in my opinion the best show on television—but if you are, you'll recognize the poem. :)

Sorry it took a long time to update. Midterms are coming up.

-

-

**-**

**Chapter 18: Meditations in an Emergency**

**-**

Now I am quietly waiting for

the catastrophe of my personality

to seem beautiful again,

and interesting, and modern.

-

The country is grey and

brown and white in trees,

snows and skies of laughter

always diminishing, less funny

not just darker, not just grey.

-

It may be the coldest day of

the year, what does he think of

that? I mean, what do I? And if I do,

perhaps I am myself again.

-

--Frank O'Hara, Mayakovsky

-

-

From time to time she whimpered and moaned in her sleep, and more than once cried out words like "get away from me!" and "don't touch me!" and "somebody help me!" and then once, she whispered, "please, please don't hurt me; please," and this he couldn't bear. But though she spoke, and tossed restlessly, and even wept, she did not wake; and he did not sleep, but kept up his vigil.

And in the morning she woke to find her body pressed against his, and warm fingers running through her hair, and despite all her nightmares she felt safe.

"You're awake?" he murmured.

She leaned back, out of his embrace, so she could look at him. He was still dressed in his street clothes; his eyes were dark and shadowed. He even still had his shoes on, and he looked exhausted.

"Did you sleep at all?" she asked. "You look terrible."

He smiled wryly. "Thanks."

"Well, did you?"

He ignored the question. "Do you want breakfast? Or do you want to take a shower or anything?"

His questions were practical and matter-of-fact; he wouldn't force her to lie or to put on an act by asking her about the attack and how she felt about it. This was one of the things she loved about him.

"Coffee," she replied.

He smiled again, a little. "Cappuccino?"

"Of course. And, actually, I think I _will_ take a shower."

She looked down at her torn blue dress and stared at it, her eyes darkening, as if she were surprised to see it.

"I'll send someone to pick up some clothes for you," he said quickly, catching her expression. "Meanwhile you can wear a bathrobe."

"Ok," she said. She got up from the bed; she wondered if she should make some kind of physical gesture, like kiss his cheek or pat his arm as she left, but it seemed that now she was awake there would be no more touching.

"I'll just be in the shower," she said sheepishly.

"Take your time," he said. He knew she would want a long shower.

And she did. She knew she couldn't physically scourge all the marks off her body that had been made then night before, and that most of the damage had been psychological anyway; but rubbing herself vigorously with soap and watching the soap suds swirl down the drain made her feel better.

Anyway, what had happened hadn't really been so terrible, she reasoned. No one had raped her or physically hurt her (apart from some bruises and a mild concussion). More importantly, Chuck had rescued her in time. She still didn't know how he had done it. She supposed he must have been nearby and heard her screaming; she was near his apartment at the time. Perhaps some day she would ask. For now she didn't feel prepared to relive the experience.

She shivered a bit under the hot water, trying not to remember the man's face under the hood—his cold, gleaming eyes, the rough stubble that rubbed abrasively against her skin. His hands, shoving her against the wall. She closed her eyes tightly and shook her head.

"It's over, it's over, it's over, it's over," she repeated, mantra-like, under her breath as she let the water stream over her head and down her body.

Finally she felt clean, so she turned the water off and shrugged on a white terrycloth robe. She let her hair hang in wet tendrils around her face; for once she didn't care if it air-dried and became frizzy.

She walked back into the bedroom; there was Chuck, sitting in bed with a tray. On the tray was her cappuccino, along with orange juice and toast and scrambled eggs.

"You're eating the whole thing," he said warningly. He knew about her sparse eating habits.

Normally she would have fretted about the calories; today she didn't mind.

She shoved the egg into her mouth ravenously with a spoon, grateful for the protein. He chuckled a bit, despite himself; he had never seen her eat like this. Finally she seemed satisfied; she put down the fork and took a long sip of coffee before setting it carefully on the tray; her movements were purposeful and decisive, and Chuck had a foreboding that she was about to say something important.

"Last night," she began, "I was on my way here, to talk to you."

He nodded, waiting for what she might say next.

"I wanted to talk to you," she continued, "because I figured something out."

She looked so calm, and there was a steadiness and finality about her tone. He felt a sudden stab of fear, and he swallowed, willed himself to ignore it.

"You've made it clear that you don't want to be with me," she said in a steady voice, and then paused.

_This is it, _Chuck thought, _she came here because she wants closure. She wants Nate, and she doesn't want me anymore._

"But I'm not sure why not. Last night you didn't seem indifferent to me—or maybe that's what I wanted to see, and I imagined it. I don't know, but it made me wonder."

She looked up to meet his eyes. It was amazing how clear and calm she felt, how focused. She knew what she had to say—she had planned it very thoroughly—and now it was falling into place.

"I came here because I still love you," she said, "and because I realized that I always will. I thought I could get over it—but I can't, and I don't even want to. I know that sounds dramatic and stupid, and I know everyone would say I'm too young to know these things. But I _know_ that there is no one out there so much like me as you are, no one who understands me like you do—and that's all there is to it. I won't settle for something less than that. So I want you to tell me, once and for all, whether or not you meant what you said a month ago, at that horrible party, before Serena shipped me overseas. I don't want any more drama. I just want the truth."

He was too tired to register shock at her words. He only caressed her cheek lightly with his fingers, feeling himself for a moment to be blindingly happy—and then he got to his feet, and began to pace the room as he processed the full significance of her words. The happiness faded under a sudden onslaught of panic and nausea.

He looked at her, the small white-robed figure sitting on his bed with wet hair and huge eyes, and began to speak involuntarily, almost unaware of what he was saying before it came out of his mouth.

"You want to know if I love you?" he asked, his eyes blank.

She nodded.

"I don't know what love is," he admitted. "And you say you love me," he continued, his tone almost accusatory; "and I suppose I have to take that for what it is—for whatever it is—but I know it isn't unconditional. I know you will forget me someday and love someone else; someone who can give you what you want. It was cruel of you to choose Nate." His eyes were bleak. "But you're like me, after all; you know how to exploit people's weaknesses."

"He means so much to you?" asked Blair. "You must love _him, _then."

"I don't really…" his eyes were distant, abstracted, as if he were contemplating something.

"He's part of my childhood; my regard for him is made up in equal parts of childhood affection, habit, and jealousy." He paused thoughtfully. "In fact, I think my feelings for him are oddly similar to yours." He turned to look at her and his eyes were once more focused.

"You see," he said. "I am telling you the truth. I have never been this honest with anybody in my entire life; maybe not even with myself."

"That's true," Blair nodded in agreement.

"I know you're not satisfied, but it's all I have to give. I'm not a hero, Blair. I'm not Carey Grant, or Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca, or Clark Gable—"

"I don't _want _you to be," Blair whispered.

"I'm not even just ordinary, Blair. I think I must be something less than human—a sociopath, with no capacity for real love. I don't deserve anyone's compassion, or respect," his voice had turned bitter, "and I should be cast out from society and hated by everyone. And I've almost accomplished that, with one glaring exception."

Blair looked up into his eyes. He had paused, as though it pained him to continue.

"You," he said, "for some reason you won't let me go…though I have done _everything in my power—_"

"Last night," Blair interrupted loudly, "When we ran into each other outside the palace you didn't seem so eager to push me away."

"A moment of weakness," Chuck sighed. "I only found out about your engagement to my best friend yesterday, you might remember…it was a low blow, Blair."

Blair chose not to reveal to him that it had not even been her idea. She was still feeling remarkably calm.

"Maybe you did this," she said, "because it was easier for you not to try to be with me."

His eyes darkened. He turned away. "It was not easy," he said.

Her heart lightened at his words, and she took note of her body's response to him without shame. She was past all that now.

"You did want me?" Her voice was tremulous.

"More than I've ever wanted anything," he said in a monotone, staring out the window.

She was almost giddy now. "So it's possible…that you do love me? A little?"

The question hung in the air between them; she almost regretted asking it.

"Love and want are two different things," he said finally. His shoulders were hunched and he looked dejected.

They sat silently for a while, listening to the rain.

He turned to her. "Enough." He got to his feet and took her hand to lift her off the bed. "I'm taking you home."

She should have been depressed, but she was not. For the first time she felt a glimmer of hope.


	19. Chapter 19: Adam's Curse

**Author's note: **I know. It's been months. I'm terribly, terribly sorry. I had so many papers and midterms—and just college life in general—that I eventually decided to abandon the story. And then I realized finally that I do really want to finish it, and I owe it to my readers. So updates will be very regular now, even if chapters are somewhat short; and again, I'm sorry!! (And the more you review, the faster updates will be). :)

-

**Chapter Nineteen: Adam's Curse**

**-**

We sat grown quiet at the name of love;

We saw the last embers of daylight die,

And in the trembling blue-green of the sky

A moon, worn as if it had been a shell

Washed by time's waters as they rose and fell

About the stars and broke in days and years.

-

I had a thought for no one's but your ears:

That you were beautiful, and that I strove

To love you in the old high way of love;

That it had all seemed happy, and yet we'd grown

As weary-hearted as that hollow moon.

--W.B. Yeats

Blair was afraid that Dan, Serena, Nate and her mother would be worried sick about her and would demand an explanation for the bruises and the torn dress. In fact, she thought darkly, they would most likely blame Chuck. This would be easy, since they would know she had been in his company; he was driving her home. She leaned back in the seat and sighed heavily.

"You don't have to do any explaining," said Chuck from beside her. "I'll tell them anything you want. They don't need to know the truth."

"Make something up," she said, and he nodded.

She looked around her at the inside of the limo. Chuck was staring out the window, his shoulders hunched and his fingers curled tightly into fists in his lap. He was probably nervous as well. A lock of hair was falling into his eyes; she leaned forward without thinking and tucked it behind his ear.

He gave her a swift, searching glance that seemed almost like a warning. She didn't care. She allowed her fingers to graze his cheek, to stroke back his hair. Why not, if doing so gave her some pleasure? She was too worn out to play games with him. She had endured too much.

She reached up with her other hand to cup his face so she could look at him. He tensed under her fingers. She traced the line of his jaw and then his lips with her thumb.

"Relax, Bass," she murmured. "This is hardly the first time we've been intimate in this limo."

He smiled a little despite himself. She leaned forward so that her soft brown hair whispered against his cheek, and he stiffened.

"I love you," she said, and then she was kissing his neck and she heard him inhale sharply.

"How often are you going to keep saying that?" He asked in a slightly aggressive voice.

"I love you, I love you, I love you," she repeated, almost amused that it made him so uncomfortable. She knew he wouldn't tolerate a display of affection like this from any other girl.

But apparently Chuck had his limits.

"Are you going to keep saying that when we're around Nate?" he asked. Blair abruptly stopped kissing him and sat back, leaning away from him. He immediately regretted it.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"No," she said, folding her arms across her chest. "It's actually a good question. What do you want me to do about Nate?"

He sighed and closed his eyes. "I don't know," he said in a defeated tone. "I have no idea."

She curled up on the seat of the limo and looked tiredly out the window.

"I don't have the energy to break up with him today," she said after a few minutes. "So I guess the charade will go on, for a little while at least."

"That's not really fair to Nate," Chuck pointed out.

"I'm a selfish person," said Blair. "You know this about me."

"That's true," he replied. "But do you actually want to break up with him?"

"Are you dense, Chuck?" She tossed a glare at him over her shoulder before turning back to continue staring out the window. "I told you I loved you, didn't I?"

"What if…" Chuck massaged his temples. "What if it never works out between us?" he asked in a strained voice. "If that were the case, would you still break up with him?"

Blair had turned to look at him, but she didn't answer. Her eyes were dark.

"We're here," called the driver.

Blair opened the door for herself and stepped out. "Chuck," she said, "this isn't my place—you took me to Serena's!"

"You don't want your mom and Cyrus seeing you in your present condition," Chuck explained. "Borrow some clothes from Serena first."

"Fine," Blair snapped. She was annoyed with him over the Nate conversation, but what he said made sense.

"Do you want me to talk to Serena for you, like we just discussed?"

"No, I can handle her," Blair replied, examining the bruises on her arms in the morning light. "And some borrowed clothes and a lot of make up will preclude the need for you to do any lying and covering up for me."

Chuck sighed, knowing that she was right; Eleanor Waldorf was not the most observant of mothers.

"I guess I'll see you tomorrow, at school, then?" he asked.

"Yes." She walked away from the limo, towards the house, and didn't look back. He watched her totter on her silver heels, observed the way her tattered blue dress clung to her small and fragile back, how the morning sunlight struck her russet hair. He suddenly missed the weight of her arm pressed up against his side, her head where it rested on his shoulder, when she had kissed him moments before and he had said something carelessly cruel.

"Blair, I—" he began, but of course she did not hear him.

He rolled up the window of the limo and silently signaled to his driver, and Blair heard the smooth crunch of gravel beneath tires behind her as she walked up the front steps and rang the doorbell; then she turned back to look, for a moment, and saw that the limo was gone.

***

"Blair," Serena said in shock, when she opened the door. "What the hell happened to you?"

"I had a bad night," said Blair tonelessly, pushing past her friend and trudging up the stairs to Serena's bedroom.

She opened the door and was greeted by a yelp, along with the sight of Dan Humphrey pulling the covers up desperately to cover his naked chest.

"B-B-Blair?" he stuttered.

"Take a minute to collect yourself, Humphrey," said Blair, closing the door in his face and then leaning back against it. She rolled her eyes. Serena had followed her up the stairs, and finally reached the top; she looked like she hardly knew what to say. She nervously ran a hand through her tousled golden hair.

"I guess you and Brooklyn finally made up," said Blair dryly, inspecting her nails. "I suppose congratulations are in order?"

"Um, yeah," said Serena. "Thanks." She took in Blair's bruised state and her torn dress, and a look of deep concern came into her eyes. "Again, what happened to you, B?"

"I was sort of attacked," replied Blair in a careless voice. "Nothing happened. I'm fine. Just tired."

"_What?!" _shrieked Serena, throwing open the door and yelling, "Dan, come out here this instant!"

"What's wrong?" asked Dan breathlessly, hastily buttoning his jeans and appearing at the door.

"_Blair was attacked," _Serena said in a dreadful whisper. "Oh my god, B—"

Dan had finally taken a moment to drink in Blair's appearance. "Oh Jesus," he said, "Oh no, Blair, does that mean—"

"Nothing happened," Blair repeated. "I got away."

"So…" Serena began, uncertainly; her eyes had filled up with tears. "So you weren't—"

"No one raped me," Blair said bluntly. Usually she was all for euphemisms, but today she was too tired to tiptoe around anything. Serena flinched, and Dan let out a long sigh of relief.

"I'm fine, I'm relatively unhurt," continued Blair, shooting Serena an apologetic look. "I'm sorry I scared you."

"_What happened_?" asked Dan.

"Some guys followed me home from the party last night," began Blair in a weary tone. "But Chuck fought them off, so it's ok." She yawned. "Look, I'm exhausted—could I maybe sleep here a few hours?"

"_Chuck?!" _exclaimed both Serena and Dan at the same time.

"I'll explain later," Blair said, and hobbled towards Serena's bed. She closed the door behind her, leaving Dan and Serena shut out on the other side with identical dumbfounded expressions.


	20. Chapter 20: Rooms Full of Strangers

**Author's Note: **Please review! Reviews really make my day. :)

**-**

**-**

**Rooms Full of Strangers**

**-**

You do not always know what I am feeling.

Last night in the warm spring air while I was

blazing my tirade against someone who doesn't

interest

me, it was love for you that set me

afire,

and isn't it odd? for in rooms full of

strangers my most tender feelings

writhe and

bear the fruit of screaming. Put out your hand,

isn't there

an ashtray, suddenly, there? beside

the bed? And someone you love enters the room

and says wouldn't

you like the eggs a little

different today?

And when they arrive they are

just plain scrambled eggs and the warm weather

is holding.

-

Frank O'Hara, _For Grace, After a Party_

She woke up in Serena's bed to see her best friend curled up beside her, where she had been for hours, running her fingers through Blair's chestnut hair and keeping watch over her as she slept.

"Good morning, B," Serena smiled. "Or, rather, good evening." Blair saw through the window, beyond Serena and the bed, that it was dark outside.

"What time is it?" she yawned.

"Seven-thirty," replied Serena. "You've been asleep since you got here this morning."

"So I've been sleeping for the better part of twenty-four hours," Blair realized.

"Well," said her friend, "judging from what you told us earlier today, it sounds like you needed it." She frowned worriedly.

"Where's Humphrey?" Blair asked.

"I just sent him to make you some tea." Blair nodded and reached down to pull the blankets up to her chin; in doing so she unintentionally revealed the bruising on one of her wrists. Serena glanced down at it and bit her lip.  
"Blair, you need to tell me what happened," she implored. "Dan and I have been worried sick."

Blair sighed. "Wait until he gets back. I don't want to have to tell it twice."

"Okay," said Serena, leaning forward to kiss Blair's cheek. She hovered over Blair, her yellow hair falling around Blair's face like a curtain, sheltering her like a cocoon. It reminded her of the last time Serena had leaned over her in a similar way; that terrible night, after she fainted and awoke to see Serena's face, her pretty features marred by the same worried and frightened expression she wore now. _Has nothing really changed for me since then? _thought Blair sadly. _I've tried so hard… _She sighed.

"Is she awake?" came Dan's low voice from the doorway.

"Yes," said Blair, lifting herself up on her elbows.

"I made you some tea, if you want," said Dan softly, carrying the cup of tea and a saucer gingerly over to the bed.

"Thanks." She sipped at it slowly so it wouldn't burn her tongue.

"Sit down, Dan," said Serena, patting the spot next to her on the bed, and Dan complied. "Blair was just about to tell us what happened to her last night."

Blair sighed again. "I left the party to go to Chuck's apartment," she began, and tried not to notice when Dan and Serena exchanged a look.

"On my way there some guys started to follow me—they surrounded me, and I couldn't get away—" she paused; reliving the memory was difficult. She remembered the wild adrenaline rush, the sheer panic and terror she had experienced; she remembered the pain in her heart, galloping in her chest, as if about to burst.

Dan placed a hand on her shoulder reassuringly.

"They dragged me into an alley. One of them pushed me up against a wall, and I banged my head on it and passed out," Blair continued in a mechanic voice. "And the next thing I remember is Chuck dragging me out of said alley and to the hospital."

Serena let out a gasp.

"So you see," said Blair, getting a grip on herself finally, "I'm perfectly alright and there's no reason for the two of you to look so horrified." She sipped her tea demurely. She was done with the pity party.

"So how do you know that…" Serena faltered. "That nothing happened?"

"I only have bruising on my arms, throat, etc. And the doctor did an examination." Blair saw that Serena and Dan didn't look any less worried. "Really, I'm fine," she added, slightly annoyed.

"How the hell did Chuck get involved in this?" asked Serena, astounded.

Blair shrugged. "I just told you everything that I know."

"Didn't you ask him?"

"No," replied Blair with some finality. "I didn't want to talk about it."

"But Chuck—" began Serena.

"I think she still doesn't want to talk about it," interrupted Dan. "I think that was a hint for us, Serena."

Blair nodded her head tartly in Dan's direction. Serena finally fell silent, pouting a little.

"We don't mean to cross-examine you," said Dan gently.

"Then don't," Blair returned.

"Sorry," said Serena, sounding like she didn't mean it. "We're worried."

"I'm _fine,_" Blair stated once more. "And I'm tired of repeating that ad nauseum."

"Fine," snapped Serena. "Fine. You're fine."

"_Yes," _Blair stressed, rolling her eyes. "I am."

"Wonderful," Dan said, slightly amused. "We're all fine and dandy."

Both girls turned to glare at him.

Suddenly the sound of the doorbell ringing downstairs interrupted their inane conversation, and they all fell silent to see if it would ring again.

"No one else is home," said Dan after a few moments. "You should probably go see who it is."

Eventually Serena sighed and stood up.

"I'll be right back," she said, and Dan and Blair nodded.

"How are things between you and Chuck now, if I may ask?" inquired Dan tentatively once she had gone.

"Actually, you may not ask, Humphrey," said Blair in an irritated voice.

"That bad?"

Blair glared at him a moment, and then shrugged and gave up all pretense. "Awful, as usual."

"I thought you were angry with him and wanted revenge. Why did you go to his apartment last night?"

"I changed my mind. Anyway, weren't you going to stop cross-examining me?"

"Right. Sorry," said Dan. "I had to wait to say this until Serena was not present."

"Say what?" Blair's eyebrows arched dangerously.

The words came all rushing out the way they did whenever he got nervous: "I'm worried that if you try to get back with Chuck, or you start interacting with him again in any way, you might have another relapse, and I'm not sure your body can take it."

He quailed a bit at her expression when she heard this. "I'm sorry, but come on, you know this is a legitimate concern, and I care about you—"

Blair actually threw a pillow at him. "Shut up," she said furiously, "you low-class, slummy, know-it-all, pretentious, pig-headed, moronic _Brooklynite." _She spat out the last word like it was the worst insult she could think of.

Dan knew better than to be offended.

"I'm sorry, Blair," he offered. "I'm really sorry." She went ahead and glared at him anyway.

"I'm only saying it because I love you," he said. Her glare softened; he had never said this to her before.

Dan stammered on nervously: "you're my best friend, and I don't want you to get hurt, and Chuck hurts you."

Blair looked sad all of a sudden, and this made Dan pause.

"I could be happy, you know," she murmured softly, staring down at her blanket that she had pulled up to her chin. "If he were just capable of saying the same thing everyone else says so easily…"

"He might not be," said Dan softly.

"I know," said Blair. "Don't worry, I'm not going to relapse."

The two of them stopped talking when they heard the sound of footsteps—someone was climbing up the stairs.

The door swung open to reveal Serena, who was pinning up her blonde hair, a bobby pin stuck between her teeth, and looking perplexed.

"Funny," she said, using the pin to hold back a lock of hair. "There was no one at the door." She wiped the stray strands of hair from her face and sauntered over to the bed, where she took up her position next to Blair once more.

****

Nate did not understand why there was a young man carrying flowers—with his back turned to him—standing at Serena Van Der Woodsen's front door. A young man dressed in a beige coat, standing in front of a stretch limousine.

_Wait a minute, _thought Nate, speeding up. He practically jogged across the street in his haste to see who it was; he had a nagging, unpleasant idea at the back of his mind that just couldn't be true.

Once he was a few feet away, he knew that it was, in fact, true.

"Chuck?" He called incredulously. "Did you come here to give Serena flowers?"

"No," said Chuck calmly; he did not turn around but he evidently recognized his former best friend's voice and Nate could see that his shoulders had tensed underneath his coat.

"I came to give Blair flowers."

"How did you know Blair was here?" Nate stammered. "And why are you giving her flowers?" He could feel the blood rising to his cheeks in indignation.

"I know she's here because I brought her here," came Chuck's voice. He had leaned forward to ring the doorbell and still would not turn around.

"What?" asked Nate.

"I brought her here this morning," Chuck repeated.

"Why?"

"Because I couldn't really leave her alone in my room all day," Chuck said snappishly.

"Why would she have been in your room?"

Chuck felt that Nate was being deliberately obtuse and tried to bite back his anger.

"Because she spent the night in my room."

Chuck did not hear Nate reply to this and so continued to face the door, waiting for someone to come downstairs and open it for him. Suddenly he felt a crushing pain; someone had hit him from behind.

"Ow, fuck, Nate," he growled, doubling over.

Nate kicked him wherever he could as he lay in the ground, yelling at him incoherently in short bursts; "how—dare—you! If you touch her again I'll—you fuck off and leave her al—"

"That's enough!" barked a stronger, taller man from behind Nate, who pinned his arms to his sides so he wriggled helplessly like a fish. It was Chuck's chauffeur, who had stepped out of the limousine to help his boss.

"You son of a bitch!" Nate howled at Chuck impotently.

"If I let you go, you'd better run far away from this house, you got that?" the chauffeur said firmly, as his grasp on Nate's wrists tightened very painfully.

Nate gasped a little in pain and nodded. When he was finally released he spun around without another word and left, stomping off angrily and leaving Chuck huddled on the concrete sidewalk.

"Here, sir, let me give you a hand," said his employee, extending a hand that Chuck grasped. He helped him back into the limo, and on his way there Chuck angrily tossed the bouquet of flowers into the gutter. Once inside he simply said: "Drive." And within moments he was gone.


	21. Chapter 21: Her Arms Full of Flowers

Author's note: Sorry that took so long to update! I hope you enjoy this chapter. Please review. :)

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**Her Arms Full of Flowers**

-

She turned away, but with the autumn weather

Compelled my imagination many days,

Many days and many hours:

Her hair over her arms and her arms full of flowers.

And I wonder how they should have been together!

I should have lost a gesture and a pose.

Sometimes these cogitations still amaze

The troubled midnight and the noon's repose.

-

T.S. Eliot, _La Figlia Che Piange_

_-_

_-_

"I'm surprised Nate didn't come over last night," said Serena as she swiped a mascara brush across her eyelashes. "I texted him to tell him you were here."

Blair shrugged. She frowned disgustedly at her reflection in the mirror; she looked pale and wan and washed out.

"I need some blush," she muttered, and Serena gestured to the collection of cosmetics in her bathroom drawer.

"Which perfume should I wear today?" asked Serena brightly, glancing over the row of shining perfume bottles on the shelf by the sink. "I'm in the mood for something citrusy. Moschino or Marc Jacobs Daisy?"

Serena had changed tactics since last night; rather than pry and try to wheedle information from Blair about Chuck, her new plan seemed to be to avoid the subject entirely and make Blair as cheerful as possible. She had even curled Blair's hair that morning after her shower.

"I don't do citrus," said Blair demurely, patting her cheeks with rouge.

Serena chuckled. "I know, Blair, you always stick to the same old Chanel. I like scents that are more…fun, and modern."

Blair snorted.

"No, really, which do you like better?' asked Serena, spraying the air with both bottles. Blair jumped back and squealed. She backed out of the bathroom.

"Ugh, Serena," she whined, "thanks to you I'll arrive at school today smelling like a French whorehouse."

Serena laughed. "Tell me which one to wear and I'll stop spraying them around the bathroom."

"Whichever one Dan prefers," said Blair impatiently.

Serena wrinkled her nose. "He can't tell the difference."

"Well, then, it doesn't really matter."

"Yes it does—"

"I'm going into your room to change," said Blair firmly.

"Okay," smiled Serena. "Wear the dress I laid out for you on the bed."

"Alright," said Blair dubiously, and walked down the hall to Serena's bedroom. She rolled her eyes when she saw the loose-fitting tunic dress and leggings Serena had prepared for her.

"I can't believe this," she muttered when she saw herself in the mirror. "I don't appreciate your sadistic sense of humor!" she called out. She heard Serena's silver laugh and then saw her open the bedroom door.

"You look great," Serena giggled, picking up her purse and taking Blair's arm. Her reflection in the mirror next to Blair's was beautiful and fresh and even tanned; Blair stepped away, back towards the door, to avoid the inevitable comparison. She hugged herself self-consciously, looking down at her pale scarecrow arms.

"We're going to be late," she said.

"Let's go, then," said Serena, following her from the room.

Blair grabbed a large pair of Chanel sunglasses on her way out, determined to hide as much of the bruising on her face from sight as possible. She and Serena stepped out into the cold January sunlight, and Blair paused on the doorstop to button up her coat and arrange her scarf.

"Come on, B, or you'll miss French class," said Serena from in front of her, "and Dan will die if you're not there to explain everything to him."

Blair smirked. "Coming," she said, and swiped a few brown curls away from her eyes. As she walked down the steps to the sidewalk something caught her eye; a flash of blue in the gutter.

She walked to the curb and leaned over, lifting her dark-tinted sunglasses to see better; it was a bouquet of now-soiled blue flowers.

Serena had continued down the street, assuming Blair was only a few steps behind her, but she eventually realized that she could not hear footsteps and so she turned around to see her best friend scooping up an armful of blue flowers from the street.

"What are you _doing?"_ she asked in amazement, hurrying back towards Blair.

Blair was smiling and looked flushed. "Aren't they pretty," she murmured, lightly fingering a bruised petal.

"No," said Serena baldly, "and they're _dirty. _Why—"

"I like them," said Blair decisively, pressing the flowers to her chest, shaking out her hair and marching down the street past Serena. "Come on," she admonished, as Serena still hadn't moved. "Or your boyfriend will be forced to tackle Albert Camus all by himself."

"Tackle who?" Serena asked distractedly, glaring at the flowers that had begun to drip. "Oh, is that a French writer?"

Blair merely rolled her eyes in response.

"Look, please," Serena implored, "just throw them back into the street, you're getting my dress dirty—"

"So what?" Blair shrugged nonchalantly. "It can really only improve it. This will teach you to lend me clothes that are actually presentable and don't make me look like a deadbeat hippie—"

"There's nothing wrong with the dress I gave you," Serena said angrily. "So it's not really your style. As far as I'm concerned that's a good thing! You're so uptight, you never look comfortable in what you wear—"

"I don't want to look _comfortable," _Blair began to retort, but was cut off by the sound of her blackberry—and Serena's—ringing simultaneously.

"Must be gossip girl," said Blair, rooting around in her purse. She fished out her blackberry and flipped it open.

"Just read it later," Serena said hurriedly, "we're already late. Let's just concentrate on getting to class."

Blair ignored her, holding up her phone to the light to see the photograph on her screen better.

"Oh my god!" she exclaimed—"Nate and Chuck got in a fight? Outside your house?"

"Wow, um, that's really—" Serena avoided Blair's gaze. "That's really unfortunate. Anyway, let's hurry up, shall we?"

"_Did you know about this?" _asked Blair suspiciously, flipping her phone shut.

"No, of course not," Serena stammered unconvincingly.

Blair placed a hand on her hip and glared.

"Ok," Serena conceded, "I witnessed the fight—I didn't want to tell you, you had too much on your mind already."

"What the hell happened?" Blair demanded furiously, stamping her foot.

"I couldn't hear what they were saying," explained Serena, "they both showed up to see you and I guess Nate wasn't expecting to see Chuck, and he sort of jumped on him, and—" she quailed at Blair's expression.

"It only lasted like a minute, alright?" she said in a defensive tone. "And no one got really hurt, and they both left very promptly. And, I'd like to reiterate, you had a lot on your mind last night without this on top of it."

Blair opened her mouth to respond but Serena cut her off.

"Look," she said, "we're at school. Go to class and be mad at me later, okay?"

They had reached the front gates of Constance.

Blair glanced at her watch; they were ten minutes late. She nodded curtly to Serena and ran up the steps and through the front door, and then out the other side into the courtyard; her French classroom was on the other side of the campus. When she was halfway there she noticed a boy sitting on a bench, watching her. Her heart suddenly leapt up into her throat.

_Be a good student, _she thought, _or ditch class to talk to Chuck Bass. Go to French, or find out what happened last night. Maintain your perfect attendance record, or spend an hour with Chuck. _She turned around slowly and walked towards the bench; Chuck smiled at her.

He glanced away from her face and saw the blue flowers she held cradled in her arms, and his eyes widened in wonder.

"How did you get my flowers?" he asked incredulously.

"_Your _flowers?"

"Yes—I went to Serena's house to give them to you."

"And?" Blair prompted breathlessly.

"And I disposed of them after Nathaniel tried to kill me," he said in a sardonic voice.

"Why did he do that?"

"He got the wrong impression—he thinks you and I are sleeping together. That, and he just generally despises me."

Blair sat down on the bench beside him, trying to process all this information. It was too much to take in, and most of it didn't seem to matter, except for one thing.

"You brought me flowers," she repeated in a warm voice.

He turned to stare at her when she said this; and after a moment he smiled.

"They're hyacinths," he said gently, leaning forward hesitantly to wrap his arm around her.

"I know," she said, and leaned down to rest her head against his shoulder.

"Are you cold?" he asked, shifting her closer to him.

"Not right now," she replied.

"We're both missing class," he stated.

"I don't care," said Blair, and the two of them sat still for a long while, both afraid to move or speak.


	22. Chapter 22: The Tempest

Author's note: Thanks so much for the reviews, guys! Please keep them coming, they make me happy. :)

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-

Chapter Twenty-Two: The Tempest

-

I am not yours, not lost in you,

Not lost, although I long to be

Lost as a candle lit at noon,

Lost as a snowflake in the sea.

-

You love me, and I find you still

A spirit beautiful and bright,

Yet I am I, who long to be

Lost as a light is lost in light.

-

Oh plunge me deep in love, put out

My senses, leave me deaf and blind,

Swept by the tempest of your love,

A taper in a rushing wind.

-

Sara Teasdale, _I Am Not Yours_

-

Blair had sat very still on the stone bench for an hour, her cheek resting on Chuck's shoulder, concentrating with all her might on the sound of his heartbeat through his wool coat—the slight rise and fall, the sound of his steady breathing. She had a strange notion the world might come to an end if she disturbed the rhythm of his heart beating against her skin. So she stayed perfectly still, though the position was becoming very uncomfortable and her neck muscles were straining.

_Any second now, _she feared, _he'll get bored—or restless—and he'll move. _And she silently prayed that he wouldn't, and thanked god every minute that ticked by that he remained by her side.

She held the damaged blue flowers quietly in her lap and smiled down at them; and Chuck watched her do so for a while and then remarked,

"You're ruining your gloves."

Her gloves were of expensive suede, and the hyacinths were dripping street water onto them. She didn't really mind.

"Aren't they your mother's gloves?" he asked in an unusually gentle voice.

It was just like Chuck to notice a thing like that.

"They're from her collection," replied Blair.

And without another word Chuck unfastened the buttons at her wrists, removed the gloves from her hands and drew out a pair of his own gloves from his pocket. Blair allowed him to pull the new gloves onto her hands for her, and then he placed her mother's gloves safely in her purse and sat back with his arm around her once more.

She thought giddily that she could happily stay there for all eternity, with his arm wrapped around her and her head resting on his shoulder.

_This is happiness, _she thought. _It has nothing to do with Yale, or with being Queen Bee, or with outshining Serena, or with impressing my mother, or anything else that I thought happiness consisted of. _

Blair Waldorf, the most needy, insecure, high maintenance socialite the Upper East Side had ever seen, only needed a boy named Chuck to buy her flowers and sit next to her on a park bench in order to be happy. She almost laughed at the absurdity of it.

_Maybe that's all that happiness is, _she thought hazily. _A few brief moments during which everything seems hopeful and it all falls into place the way it was meant to—and I only feel it so intensely because I know it's going to end any second. _

Suddenly the bell rang, signaling that the first period was over; students of AP French began to spill out into the courtyard from the door of Blair's classroom.

Blair and Chuck sat there still, but it was beginning to rain; a thick fog had gathered around the courtyard and the drizzle had begun to seep through Blair's coat and make her shiver. Her hair was dripping—her perfect curls were now lank and damp, and dead, slimy wet leaves clung to her dress and her shoes. She huddled closer to Chuck for warmth and cursed the weather and the ringing of the bell.

"Let's get out of here," said Blair; the jarring clang of the bell had ruined her perfect moment.

"Where would you like to go?" asked Chuck.

"Anywhere," she replied. "Somewhere dry."

"Alright," he stood up. "I have an idea."

"What?" she asked, rubbing her sore neck.

"You'll see," he said as he buttoned his beige raincoat.

She followed him out the school courtyard to the street, glancing surreptitiously up at his profile every few steps. His eyes were dark and brooding, as they almost always were, but a small, sardonic smile had twisted the corners of his mouth; it was the wry smile, she knew, he always wore when he was truly pleased or amused by something—enough so for his own reaction to surprise him.

He placed his hand carefully on her elbow to guide her; she had hoped he would take her hand instead but she appreciated the gesture nonetheless.

She felt the warmth from his hand spreading through her arm, radiating up and down her body.

They had reached Chuck's limo. He opened the door for her; she shot him a questioning glance that went unanswered, and then waited inside while he whispered directions to the driver.

She waited for him to return and sit down next to her, and finally he did. She wished she could lean across the leather seating that separated her from him but he had gone suddenly stiff, and was staring out the window—and it did not seem right.

"What is it?" she asked timidly.

He seemed to hesitate for a moment and then turned back to her. "Judging from his reaction yesterday," he said, and his jaw was set stubbornly, "I'd say Nate really has feelings for you. Again."

Blair sighed. "I didn't think he ever did. Not really."

"No," Chuck disagreed in a surly tone, "I'm sure he did, towards the end, before he found out about…us."

"That was so long ago," protested Blair weakly. "It's in the past. It's ancient history."

"The past isn't dead and buried. In fact, it isn't even past," Chuck declaimed as he loosened his tie, and uncomfortable though he seemed, his sardonic smile flashed in the dark limo—he was seemingly amused by his own wittiness.

"Don't quote Barack Obama at me," Blair said angrily.

"I'm quoting Faulkner, actually," replied Chuck in a smug tone. "Obama rephrased the same line in a speech once, but it was originally Faulkner's."

"Who cares?" Blair threw her hands up in the air.

Chuck reached into his pocket and drew out a cigar and a box of matches. "I hate it when people misattribute," he said as he lit up.

"What's your point?" she asked, annoyed.

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You're asking me to explain the quote?" he asked. "I'd expect little Miss Waldorf the valedictorian to have brains enough to—"

"I got it," she said sharply. "I just don't get why we're having an unpleasant conversation about Nate. Again."

"Don't you need to figure out what you're going to do with him?" Chuck asked.

"It's not a problem right now."

"He assaulted me yesterday," said Chuck. "I call that a problem."

Blair merely folded her arms across her chest and said nothing.

"Or, you know, we could wait until he kills me," Chuck went on blithely. "That seems like the most reasonable course of action. A quick, sudden death sounds like just about what the doctor ordered right now. You'd help arrange the funeral, right Blair? I want it to be as long and boring as possible—get a priest who is willing to read an unbelievably long-winded sermon, and I want some tearful speeches from my friends—"

"What friends?" Blair interrupted acidly.

"And then I want some creepy organ music in the background," Chuck continued, "and it has to take place in a particularly bleak-looking cemetery on a rainy day. You'll help put this together, right Blair?"

"Anything I can do, Chuck," Blair replied in a falsely sweet voice. "I can't pass up the opportunity to wear black, it looks really good on me."

"Excellent," Chuck said, "and if it turns out as dreadful as I would like it to be, by the end of it all the people there who hated me while I was alive will feel deeply uncomfortable and guilty."

"Well, that's certainly something to aspire for," snorted Blair.

"It is," Chuck asserted as he blew out a puff of smoke from his cigar. "Not that many people get the opportunity to reach out beyond the grave to mess with their enemies."

Blair rolled her eyes. "He's not going to kill you," she said. "There's no need to be so melodramatic."

"He's not going to stand quietly by," he said in a suddenly serious tone, "while he thinks he's losing you."

Blair turned back to him and her eyes flashed. "Then I'll tell him that it's over," she said harshly. "Is that what you want?"

Chuck said nothing.

"What _do _you want me to tell him?"

Chuck looked out the window. "I don't know," he said.

"I think you only brought this up," began Blair slowly, "because you _wanted _to ruin it."

He turned back to look at her, an oddly vulnerable look in his eyes.

"We were having a moment," Blair stated, "and you just had to ruin it."

Chuck opened his mouth to speak. "Nate—"

"Stop talking about Nate," Blair said furiously. "Don't we have more important things to talk about? Why do you keep bringing him up?"

"I think I'm—" Chuck hesitated. "I think I'm stalling."

His hand that was holding the cigar was shaking a bit and he looked nervous; Blair's eyes softened. She reached forward to brush his hair out of his eyes, and he held very still until she was finished.

"We'll have plenty of time to figure out the Nate situation," she said. "For now, let's just enjoy the day—alright?"

Chuck nodded.

The limo rolled to a stop.

"We're here," he said, a small smile twisting up the corners of his mouth once more.

Blair stepped out of the limo, her heels tapping a light staccato against the concrete. They were in an alley in Greenwich Village, and in front of her was a musty, old-fashioned little movie theater.

"They play old movies," said Chuck from behind her, "classic, black-and-white, '40s and '50s era mostly—the kind you like best."

Blair squealed in delight and threw her arms around Chuck; he chuckled a bit at her reaction.

"And," he added, "I'm pretty sure they show Breakfast At Tiffany's at least once a week." He smiled down at her, almost shyly.

She suddenly felt she couldn't resist the urge, and she bent forward to kiss him; he was startled, but he didn't pull away.

She rested her fingers against the pulse in his neck while he kissed her; it was beating erratically, and that gave her a special thrill, to know that she affected him.

When the kiss ended she had to stand very still for a moment because it felt as though the world was spinning dizzily around her.

He cupped her cheek lightly with his hand and pushed up her chin so she would look directly into his eyes.

He smiled again, this time fully.

"Let's go inside," he said, and she followed him through the front door, slipping her hand into his.


	23. Chapter 23: Bright Star

Author's note: I'm glad you guys liked the last chapter! Please review this one too. :)

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**Bright Star, Would I Were Stedfast**

-

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art---

Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night

And watching, with eternal lids apart,

Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,

The moving waters at their priestlike task

Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,

Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask

Of snow upon the mountains and the moors---

No---yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,

Pillowed upon my fair love's ripening breast,

To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,

Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,

Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,

And so live ever---or else swoon in death.

-

John Keats

-

-

"Chuck and Blair holding hands," said Blair in a teasing whisper, when she and Chuck were seated side by side in the dark theater. "Chuck and Blair going to the movies…"

"Shut up," Chuck replied, but she saw that familiar sardonic, sideways smile tugging up the corners of his lips.

The titles began to roll, and the title of the film, _Sabrina, _appeared on the screen.

"I think you're hotter than Audrey Hepburn," Chuck said after a while.

"I am _not!" _said Blair indignantly. "And anyway, that's the wrong word to for Audrey Hepburn—she's exquisitely beautiful and elegant and graceful—"

Chuck looked amazed. "Is it just me, or were you insulted when I compared you favorably to Audrey Hepburn?"

"I was insulted on her behalf," Blair said haughtily. "She's the most beautiful woman in the world, and she's my idol, so of course she's prettier than I am. She's _Audrey Hepburn, _for god's sake."

Chuck shook his head in bewilderment. "I don't understand why you get so defensive…for her sake rather than yours!"

"You know," Blair said, "not just anyone deserves to be compared to Audrey Hepburn. Remember when that ugly, common little actress played the role of Audrey in a movie about Audrey Hepburn's life—"

"Oh right," said Chuck, "that Jennifer Love Something girl?"

"Jennifer Love Hewitt," Blair spat, as if the name were distasteful to her. "That movie was a huge insult to Audrey Hepburn and her entire legacy."

Chuck chuckled a bit despite himself.

"Audrey Hepburn is a paragon of beauty," concluded Blair. "She's lovely and original and sophisticated and she has _class."_

"Well, fine," said Chuck. "But you aren't Jennifer Love Hewitt. You're Blair Waldorf. And you and Audrey Hepburn are clearly in the same league," he finished in a low voice, smiling sideways at her.

Blair smiled back, obviously flattered. "Watch the movie," she ordered. "This is one of my favorites."

"What's it about?" Chuck asked.

"Watch it and find out," replied Blair.

"I'd rather if you told me first."

"Why?"

Chuck shrugged. "If you give me a synopsis, that'll take up some time, and, frankly, that's just less time I'll have to spend being bored by the movie."

"Well," began Blair, shooting him an annoyed glance, "Audrey Hepburn is a sort of awkward and introverted young girl, and she's in love with this popular, blond, rich guy, played by William Holden, but he's too busy being a superficial playboy to notice her."

"Go on," said Chuck.

"And then she moves to France for two years and gets a make-over and becomes more confident and grows up a bit, and she goes back home to try and win over William Holden. And when she comes back she causes quite the stir; everyone is quite taken with her, and William Holden is instantly smitten."

"Sounds like a short movie," Chuck muttered.

"Except then she starts to spend time with William Holden's anti-social and rude older brother, Humphrey Bogart; and to her surprise she is attracted to him. And, well, she has to choose between the two."

Chuck snorted.

"I know what you're thinking," said Blair, annoyed, "and no, I did not just make that up. It's not my fault that the plot of Sabrina eerily resembles my own love life."

"Am I Humphrey Bogart in this scenario?" Chuck asked, smirking.

"I guess so," she replied huffily.

"Alright," he said, "I'm sold. I want to see how this movie ends."

Blair crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair, smiling slightly.

Chuck amused himself by surreptitiously watching Blair's ecstatic face as she watched her beloved Audrey Hepburn film, half-lit by the black-and-white light of the big screen.

She possessed, he mused, her own peculiar brand of idealism; she fervently admired a type of beauty that was based upon unostentatious and tasteful elegance, grace, sophistication. For her, these were values to live by. This was why she was decidedly old-fashioned in many of her tastes.

People thought she had disdained the Humphreys, and by extension Vanessa, because they were poor; but really it was because she considered their "bohemian, starving artist" posturing to be kitsch.

Blair adored Audrey Hepburn because she considered her to be the embodiment of these values. Blair loved Audrey so much that she actually took offense when someone denigrated her idol by comparing her physically to Blair herself. Audrey Hepburn was to her more than human; and to say that Blair, a mere mortal, was more beautiful than she! That was almost blasphemous.

Blair had forced Nate, and sometimes also his side-kick, Chuck, to watch _Breakfast At Tiffany's_ with her many times over the years; and Chuck had been struck by how much Blair herself resembled the heroine, a beautiful lost soul who spent her days scheming to marry a rich man and get her hands on a great deal of money, but was even so truly naïve and innocent. A dreamer, who just wanted her life to be beautiful and easy; she wanted to glide through and never get her hands dirty.

This was the extremely rare quality in Blair that Chuck had always perceived; that beneath the bitchy, materialistic, manipulative socialite exterior was a vulnerable sort of idealism and innocence that was deeply engrained and enduring, though perhaps slightly delusional. It was this quality that made her so beautiful in his eyes—a quality that perhaps no one else in the world was aware that Blair possessed.

He watched her with a tender look in his eyes as she stared, enraptured, at Audrey Hepburn on the screen. He leaned forward to brush aside a tendril of hair that rested on the nape of her neck; and that was when he saw a glimmer of silver along her throat. His eyes widened as he lifted her hair to look at it; it was the necklace he had given her at her birthday party, so long ago—a lovely and delicate necklace she herself had picked out, hoping that Nate would give it to her.

He remembered what he had said to her then: "something this beautiful deserves to be seen on someone worthy of its beauty."

She was watching him out of the corner of her eye.

"It's the necklace," he whispered.

"Yes it is," she replied.

"It really suits you," he said.

She smiled and said nothing, and they both turned back to watch the screen.

The movie theater was dark and musty and mostly empty, and they were sitting in a balcony that had old-fashioned wooden railings. Perched up above everyone in the balcony, Blair felt like she was floating in her own little paradise, elevated above and separated from the rest of the world. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the railing and cupping her face in her hands like a small child, her feet swinging freely in the air. She smiled self-consciously during the last scene, which depicted Humphrey Bogart and Audrey Hepburn leaving together on a boat for Paris.

"Where to now?" asked Chuck as they left the theater.

Blair sighed. "I'm supposed to be having dinner with Serena."

"Okay," said Chuck, patting her reassuringly on the shoulder, "I'll drive you to her place."

When they arrived, Blair kissed Chuck goodbye before skipping happily up to Serena's door. Her best friend looked faintly angry when she opened the door to let her in.

"How come you weren't in English class today?" she asked.

"I didn't go to any of my classes," said Blair happily as she took off her coat. "And I don't care," she added.

Serena raised her eyebrows. "That's unlike you. What happened?"

"I ran into Chuck. We decided to ditch class and go see a movie."

Serena looked dumbfounded. "Are you serious?"

"Quite," replied Blair, adjusting her necklace. "You know," she said, veering off-topic, "I'm still wearing this horrible hippie outfit you gave me this morning. Do you have anything more appropriate I could put on for dinner?"

Serena rolled her eyes. "Let's go upstairs," she said.

"Did I miss anything important at school?" Blair asked.

"Oh—yes," replied Serena, "we're doing presentations for AP English; we each got assigned an American poet. You got Edna St. Vincent Millay."

"Who's that?"

"Apparently she was the first woman to win a Pulitzer for poetry. But stop distracting me; I want to talk about Chuck. Why did you go see a movie with him anyway?"

"Why not?" Blair shrugged her shoulders. "It was fun."

"And what did you do afterwards?" asked Serena in a voice that was heavy with implication.

"Nothing," said Blair firmly. "It was just a movie."

"Okay, okay," said Serena, "it's just hard to believe that your relationship with Chuck has suddenly gotten so…platonic. Usually you're either not speaking to him at all, or you're swept up in a torrid love affair."

"Well, we're taking things slowly I guess," said Blair defensively. "Sex would just… confuse things right now."

"Does he see it that way?" asked Serena skeptically.

"Of course!"

"You mean to say," said Serena, "he knows that you're completely in love with him and will do anything he wants," she paused; "and he really hasn't taken advantage of that?"

"Oh, god no," said Blair in surprise. "He wouldn't—we're not on the same page; I've openly committed myself to him, but he hasn't to me. He knows that would be completely unfair, and he wouldn't use me that way."

"He would if it were anyone else," said Serena decisively, and Blair hoped she was right, and hoped that it meant something.


	24. Chapter 24: Beauty Through All Wrongs

Author's note: I'm so sorry, dear readers, that I abandoned this story for such a long time. I lost the thread of it during finals, and wasn't able to pick it back up until a while after. This chapter is quite a bit longer than usual to compensate.

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TO A FRIEND

-

I ask but one thing of you, only one,

That always you will be my dream of you;

That never shall I wake to find untrue

All this I have believed and rested on,

Forever vanished, like a vision gone

Out into the night. Alas, how few

There are who strike in us a chord we knew

Existed, but so seldom heard its tone

We tremble at the half-forgotten sound.

The world is full of rude awakenings

And heaven-born castles shattered to the ground,

Yet still our human longing vainly clings

To a belief in beauty through all wrongs.

O stay your hand, and leave my heart its songs!

-

--Amy Lowell

-

-

The doorbell rang around noon, shaking Serena out of her slumber. She tossed over, stifling a yawn, and was drifting back to sleep when it rang again. She frowned and placed a pillow over her heard so that it would block her ears.

"Serena," came Lily's voice from downstairs. Serena ignored it.

"Serena!" she called again, aggravated.

"I'm coming!" yelled Serena, throwing on a silk bathrobe and tripping down the stairs.

"You have a guest," said Lily, disapprovingly noting her daughter's disheveled appearance.

"And it's already midday, Serena, you should be awake and—"

"Okay, mom," Serena interrupted, running a hand tiredly through her tangled blonde hair. "Who's my guest?"

A thin girl stepped into the room from where she had been loitering in the hallway.

"I'll leave you girls alone," said Lily, picking up a stack of newspapers from the coffee table on her way to the dining room.

"Penelope?" Serena asked, deeply surprised. "What are you doing here?" Penelope had lost weight since the last time she had seen her; she looked almost skeletal. Even her cheekbones jutted out more than usual. When was the last time she had seen Penelope? Her eyes narrowed in disgust when she remembered; the day she and her friends returned from France, when Penelope insulted Blair in front of the entire student body.

"Do you know where I can score some coke?" Serena asked sarcastically.

"What?" asked Penelope, her mouth hanging slightly open.

Serena shrugged. "That's the only explanation I can come up with for your mysterious weight loss."

Penelope crossed her arms across her chest. "I need to talk to Blair, and that short, bald guy at her house said she was here."

"That 'short, bald guy'?" asked Serena furiously. "You mean Blair's stepfather?"

"Whatever," retorted Penelope. "Can I talk to her?"

Serena's eyes narrowed further. "Why?"

"She's the Queen Bee," Penelope replied shortly.

Serena raised her eyebrows skeptically. "When did you decide to reinstate her to the throne?"

"Look, are you going to tell her I'm here, or should I go upstairs myself?"

But the two girls heard Blair's faraway voice cut through their argument.

"Serena, what's going on?"

"Penelope's here," replied Serena tersely. "I'll chase her out if you want."

Blair appeared at the top of the staircase, fully and impeccably dressed. Unlike Serena, she was not a late riser; she had showered and dressed hours before and had even devoted a considerable chunk of the morning to editing her history paper for the third time.

Her lips curled up into a smirk when she saw Penelope, and she eyed her up and down.

"Heroin chic is so last year," she drawled.

"I'm modeling for Versace in fashion week," explained Penelope with obvious pride, ignoring the insult. "And models have to have perfect bodies, so I've been on an intensive workout routine."

"I would have guessed that you were in intensive chemotherapy from the way you look," replied Blair.

Serena sniggered. She didn't like her best friend hanging out with Chuck but at least there was this silver lining; it put Blair in a good mood and therefore caused her to recover her cutting sense of humor.

Penelope seemed less amused. "If you stop insulting me now, I can get to the point of my visit."

"Enlighten me."

Penelope shook her hair back and pursed her lips as if she were about to do something really distasteful. "I came here to offer you a spot in the show," she said.

Blair could not hide the surprise in her voice. "The fashion show? You want me to model for Versace?"

Penelope nodded, looking as though she had swallowed a lemon. "I have a cousin who could arrange it. He's the one who got me in, in the first place."

"Why would you arrange it?" asked Blair, placing her hand on her hip. "What do you want?"

"I want you to convince Chuck to stop blackmailing me," Penelope replied. "He knows…things about me which can't be made public. He said he'd keep quiet as long as I stayed out of school—"

"Oh!" said Serena, dawning comprehension on her face, "so that's why I haven't seen you in school!"

"Yes," said Penelope resentfully. "I had a hell of a time getting my dad to sell some story about doing my coursework from home because we were having family problems—"

"Your dad's loaded," said Blair scornfully. "It can't have been that hard to pay them off."

Penelope was visibly irritated. "Yeah, but there's a limit to how much school I can miss. If it goes on like this indefinitely they won't let me graduate!"

"Why is Chuck exiling you from Constance?" asked Serena.

Penelope looked uneasily from Serena to Blair, whose eyebrows were raised, and then back.

"He said, literally, "Blair has enough shit to deal with without her ex-posse bitching at her and getting in her way at school."

Serena and Blair both looked momentarily stunned.

"Look, Blair, please," began Penelope, who for such a proud girl was come remarkably close to begging, "convince Chuck to let me back into Constance, and I'll put you on the runway for the biggest event of the season."

Blair eyed her consideringly.

"I'll think about it," she said finally. "You can leave now."

Penelope turned to leave. "You'll let me know when you've made your decision?" she asked when she reached the doorway.

"Yes," replied Blair, and waved her hand dismissively.

*****

Chuck woke up that morning to the sound of his cell phone ringing.

He rubbed his eyes and stretched leisurely, but it kept ringing so he got out of bed to answer it.

He was in a surprisingly good mood. It was a lovely Saturday morning, he thought, looking out the window, the weather was nice; and he had spent an entire day with Blair without screwing up once. Well, it had not gone entirely smoothly, perhaps, but it had ended well, and that was what mattered.

He smiled a bit when he saw who was calling.

"Good morning, Blair," he said into the phone.

"Did I wake you?" she asked. He wondered how she could always tell.

"Yes, but don't feel bad." He had slept extremely well for twelve hours, and without any nightmares; for him this was unheard of.

"I don't feel bad," she answered. "I can't believe you were still in bed, you lazy ass."

Chuck smirked into the phone and made no answer.

"Anyway," continued Blair briskly, "I called because I'm curious to hear your explanation as to why you've been blackmailing Penelope."

Chuck froze for a moment, and tried to think of something to say. Ultimately, all he could manage was: "Why don't you come over for breakfast, and we can talk about it."

Blair sounded pleased. "You'd better make that lunch. Normal humans eat breakfast in the morning, not the afternoon."

"Brunch," Chuck compromised.

"Alright," agreed Blair.

He heard the line disconnect, and realized she'd hung up without bothering to say goodbye. He tossed his phone onto the bed, amused, and went to his closet to find something to wear.

He felt slightly nervous, looking through his clothes; he couldn't seem to find anything he wanted to wear. He realized, to his great embarrassment, that he was worried about what Blair would think of how he looked.

"When did I become such a girl?" he asked himself aloud, disgustedly, settling finally on a shirt that Nate had given him years ago as a gift.

When he was fully dressed and had brushed his teeth, he stood in front of the mirror, worriedly running his hand through his hair. It had occurred to him that he didn't know what to do about food. Was Blair expecting him to cook? Surely not; they could order in, or go out to a restaurant. He could just ask her what she preferred when she arrived. When was it reasonable to start expecting her? He glanced at his watch, impatient. It had only been fifteen minutes since they had spoken on the phone.

Pathetic, he thought as he fiddled nervously with his shirt cuffs and checked that every button of his shirt had been buttoned. But then he looked up again at his reflection in the mirror, and smiled wryly at it.

The doorbell rang, and he nearly jumped out of his skin.

He went quickly to the door, beginning to say: "That was fast!" as he opened it. But the words died on his lips; Blair was not on the other side of the door. It was Nate.

"Nate," he choked out. His fingers latched onto the doorknob so hard that his knuckles were whitening.

"Chuck," Nate said grimly. "I need to talk to you about Blair."

Chuck swallowed hard. "Just say whatever you want to say, Nate."

He said the name, "Nate", so softly—almost gently—that for a second Nate almost forgot his painful errand, almost forgot the past year, and remembered his childhood friend. His best friend, who loved what he loved and hated what he hated. His best friend, who put him above everything and everyone else, and who would never dream of betraying him. It was too painful to think about; it left a sour taste in his throat that he tried to swallow.

"I'm not mad at you, Chuck," he said sadly.

"Then why are you here?" Chuck asked brusquely.

"I want you to do the right thing," Nate replied firmly. "I want you to leave Blair. Permanently, this time."

Chuck's eyes widened in shock, and it was a moment before he could speak. When he did, his tone was as cold and sharp as ice.

"And on what grounds do you presume to come to my house uninvited, after physically assaulting me only a matter of hours before, to make this demand, Nathaniel?"

"I love her," Nate said, certain of himself now, his voice clear as a bell. "Can you say the same of yourself?"

Chuck's muscles tightened, and his voice grew even colder. "Is that why you want me to leave her?" His eyes narrowed. "You think I should leave her because _you _want her. And I should let you have her, because I always give you what you want; and I always have, no matter what, because that's what I thought it meant to be a best friend—"

"No," Nate interrupted loudly. "That's not why I think you should let her go. It has nothing to do with me."

"Why, then?" asked Chuck.

Nate pushed past him, into the living room, making it clear that he had no intention of leaving immediately; that whatever he had to say could not be said briefly. His golden hair glinted in the sunlight, but his face was cast in shadow.

"Come here," he said over his shoulder, "and I'll tell you."

And Chuck followed him with dread, and with a heavy weight in his heart.

****

Blair knew that something was wrong the moment she arrived and saw the front door wide open, and Chuck nowhere in sight. She entered and closed it behind her, frowning. She called out, tentatively, "Chuck?"

There was no answer.

She walked through several rooms, repeating his name, trying to keep her anxiety out of her voice. She felt a stab of relief when she entered the bedroom, and found him there, sitting on his bed. But the relief died when she saw the tension in his posture, and noticed that he was nursing a glass of scotch.

"Bit early to be drinking, isn't it?" she said, trying to keep her voice light.

"What do you want?" he asked in response, somewhat rudely.

"I—well, I—" she stammered in response. "I know that you've been blackmailing Penelope for my sake. I wanted to know why."

"Why do you think I did?" he returned, tossing back his scotch.

She was still taken aback by his harsh tone, but she composed herself and said, simply, "I think you knew Penelope was causing me stress, and you got rid of her because you want me to be happy."

She actually smiled a bit, waveringly, and it struck him that she sounded so certain of his good intentions and of his affection.

"It sounds like there's nothing left for me to explain," he said, and there was an underlying sarcasm to his tone that he had not intended.

The smile faltered. She looked like a little girl suddenly, in her mary jane pumps and her schoolgirl skirt and her signature headband.

"What is it you want from me, Blair?" he asked, giving the words special significance.

Blair whitened. "How could you even ask me that?"

He rambled on, as if he had not heard her--"a five carat ring, a monogrammed set of china, a house in the Hamptons, 2.1 kids, sec-ur-ity, com-mm-it-ment--" he stretched out the words, sounding out each syllable scornfully.

"What's wrong with all of that?" Blair asked in a voice full of betrayal. "Why shouldn't I want all that from you, someday?"

Chuck stared at her incredulously.

"I'm Chuck Bass," he said in the voice of one explaining to a child that two-plus-two equals four.

Blair felt suddenly ill; her hands trembled, and she held them awkwardly at her sides, as if she couldn't think what to do with them; her stomach did a strange flip, a sick feeling that always started there when she was distressed and worked its way up her throat if she was not careful.

Chuck saw that she had stopped looking at him. Her eyes were darting nervously, first staring at the bed, the lamp on the endtable, at the wall behind him, and finally at the floor. And their expression--he couldn't quite put his finger on it, though he could usually read her like a book. He expected to see anger, but more than anything she looked ashamed.

"If all these things are--off the table," she said haltingly, in a voice that quavered and was so unlike hers, "then what are you offering me, exactly?"

"Who said I was offering you anything?" Chuck retorted immediately--and then flinched at her expression. Why was his first impulse always cruelty?

He had just begun to see clearly, in the inexpressibly painful past hour, that this was the pattern he and Blair had followed throughout the course of their relationship. As soon as things started going well he would say or do something unspeakably cruel with the hopes of permanently driving her away. And then she would leave him, heartbroken; and later she would maybe give him another chance when he was stupid enough to ask for it, but each encounter left her weaker, and each time she trusted him less. He was too much of a coward to break the vicious circle, and so was she, though only he could be blamed for perpetrating it.

He wanted to tell her, _You're the only way out, Blair; you have to end it to save yourself. I'm too much of a monster to do it. I've already tried, I don't think I can try again._

But he was too cowardly even to say these things, and he didn't think she would understand.

And there was more that he wanted to explain to her, things that even he did not fully understand; to do with their childhood, and with loyalties, and friendships.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly, and her eyes flashed. Her red lips set into a rigid, thin line, and her cheeks reddened. He could see that she was beginning to hate him; he felt something twisting in his stomach, something bitter and acidic. Was she going to hit him? She looked like he might; he didn't blame her. He waited for it.

She didn't hit him; she just stood still, her cheeks flushing dark red. He imagined she was torn between two influences; on the one hand there was whatever love she might still harbor for him, on the other there was her pride—the fact that she was Blair Waldorf, that she was made for finer things, that he was not worth the dust beneath her feet, that a Waldorf was meant to command others and not be used cruelly by them. He thought, bizarrely, of a line from Ovid: _Love and Dignity cannot abide in the same House._

And still she stood before him, the line of her jaw haughty and stubborn. There was a bitter pride in her eyes, and they cut like a knife; it hurt him to look at her.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked finally, in a monotone.

He began to wish she had hit him instead.

He stared at her as she grew angrier and angrier, her eyes narrowing.

"_Well_?" she hissed.

She was on the verge of walking out, possibly forever. It would be so easy to just push her a little bit more.

"It's easier," he heard himself say, "when you have nothing to lose."

"You _do_ have something to lose," Blair rejoined, incensed. "How would you like it if I walked out that door right now and never came back?" Her tone was of anger and she glared at him furiously--but underneath the simmering anger she felt fear and panic.

She waited breathlessly for him to respond, feeling more and more that this was a critical turning point in her life.

He did not answer, but only looked back at her steadily, those dark eyes hooded and unreadable, as they always were.

There was a blockage in her chest. She tried to breathe through it, fighting a wave of rising panic; he still said nothing.

"I'll leave right now," she said in a steely voice, as soon as her breathing had become more regular. "If losing me means nothing to you then I'll leave right now. I won't stick around forever like a victim, waiting for you to abuse me."

Chuck remained silent, and Blair spun around and marched to the door.

Halfway there she broke into a run; blood was pounding in her ears and her surroundings blurred slightly in her eyes. She reached blindly for the door, her hand shaking, and was rattling the doorknob frantically when she felt a weight pressed against her back and shoulders. A hand reached down to covers hers and clasped it tightly, preventing her from opening the door.

She felt the muscles of his chest and shoulders pressing into her back, and shocks ran through her nerves where he touched her.

She spun around to find herself pinned up against the wall, one of her shoulder blades jammed painfully into the doorknob.

Chuck held her tightly while she struggled, until she stopped; his nose was inches from hers; in his eyes was a look of wild pain, which surprised her so much that she gasped aloud.

"Don't leave," he said, breathing so harshly that she could feel his ribcage vibrating. "Please don't leave," he repeated.

"I—" she began, and his eyes darted from her lips to her eyes, and back, as he waited for her to finish her sentence. He held her wrist pinned against the wall, and could feel her pulse galloping. His grip on her wrist and on her upper arm tightened inadvertently, and she gasped in pain and perhaps in fear; and he noticed and let go of her immediately and stepped away, shocked.

"You're afraid of me," he said, and his voice wavered; "aren't you."

"No," she said breathlessly, and pulled him back, cradling his head in her hands, doing all she could to erase the look on his face. Her fingers whispered feverishly across his skin. There was still a fluttering in her stomach, but not the sick kind. The pain and the fear and the anger melted away, and there was only Chuck, his jaw tense beneath her hands, and his eyes, so sad and serious that it broke her heart a little to look at them.

"I'm not afraid of you," she repeated, and leaned forward to plant a string of butterfly kisses along his jaw; she pressed her palm to his chest and felt his heart pounding, his skin warm to the touch even through the layers he wore. After a moment he leaned down to push her against the door and kissed her hard.

She felt lightning strike through her, melting her insides, turning her bones to glass. He leaned down to kiss the pulse in her throat, and his lips burned against her skin; and then his mouth moved back up to hers, and all thought dissolved, or at least all ability to separate thoughts into cogent threads of consciousness. She felt her knees buckling beneath her so she had to hook her arms around his neck so as not to fall, and he lifted her up so she could wrap her legs around him.

He fumbled with the buttons at the back of her dress; his fingers scorched her skin.

"I'm sorry," he said, and she kissed his temple, and his eyes and nose and mouth, and he shuddered.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, almost stammering, "I just—I can't seem to figure out how to let go."

She was too caught up in a fever to pay attention to his words; she pressed her body to his and kissed him again, more deeply, and her eyelids fluttered shut and against them she saw little bursts of light.

He had mostly slipped off her dress by now, and his hands burned her skin. She pulled off his sweater, desiring desperately to feel his skin against her skin.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered against her neck, after a few moments, tracing a line across her spine and up to the wings of her shoulder blades with his fingertips. She shivered and said nothing.

"Tell me to stop now," he said more insistently, "or I won't be able to."

"Then don't," she replied, melting against him, pressing her lips once more to his, and without breaking the kiss he wordlessly lifted her off the wall and carried her to his bed.


	25. Chapter 25: Mauvais Foi

Author's note: I apologize again for the long delay; I have already written first drafts of the next couple chapters, though, so the next update shouldn't be far away. Also, keep in mind that the more you review, the more I am motivated to work hard and update quickly. :)

-

-

-** The Prohibition**

**-**

Yet love and hate me too;

So these extremes shall ne'er their office do;

Love me, that I may die the gentler way;

Hate me, because thy love's too great for me

-

-John Donne

-

_-_

_Chuck emerged from a deep sleep to find himself lying on the floor of a white church. It was a beautiful, quaint, old-fashioned church; yellow light streamed in through the high windows, and the walls, the pews, and the pulpit were a sparkling clean white. It was entirely empty and quiet. _

_He got to his feet uncertainly. "What am I doing here?" he asked aloud, and then clamped his mouth shut because his words had echoed in a sharp and disturbing manner, shattering the peace and solemnity of the empty place of worship._

_He looked around at the bare pews and tried to imagine the church full of people, as it was no doubt meant to be; people who gathered together to pray to a god. It was a concept Chuck had never understood, and had always been impatient with. He had never felt the impulse to put his blind faith into something he could not control, something that probably did not exist. He considered himself too rational to believe in any kind of god; he was a man of the world, and was doused in the cold reality of it. He was a businessman._

_He tried to imagine the motives of the people who came to this church. Perhaps praying together made them feel less alone and more hopeful, as if they were nurturing a personal bond with their God and with each other, one that was meaningful and lasting. Perhaps it helped them ignore the reality, which Chuck had always known to be this: that the universe is indifferent, and that we all die alone. _

_He remembered, suddenly, Blair's strange desire to confess to a priest after that first night, so long ago now. He frowned at the memory. Blair was not even a Catholic, and she was as much an atheist as he was. What desperation had driven her to look for answers in that most unlikely of all places? What confusion, what helplessness, what desolation she must have felt! He could not imagine it. It was a very different kind of searching need—a different kind of blind faith—than that of the anonymous people in the church that he had imagined to himself. _

_Sick of these thoughts, Chuck got to his feet and walked down the aisle; at the other end was an open door, and beyond it was a thicket of trees. He walked out the door and found himself in the middle of a forest. There was no forest path to follow, but his feet led him onwards, through the trees, picking out their own path without any doubt._

_And then he reached a clearing, and in the center of the clearing was a young girl, kneeling on the grass; and all about her were strewn heaps of brilliant blue flowers. Her head was bent down, and her eyes shut. Her palms were pressed together, as if she were praying._

"_Blair!" he called out._

_And when she heard his voice her eyes opened; she stood up and faced him, and her cheeks flushed bright as the sunset and her lips curved into a wide smile. _

_And she was the same Blair he had seen in the greenhouse in France; as confident and as happy and as alive and beautiful. Except that this time she was smiling at him, and not at his best friend._

_She held out her hands, still smiling brilliantly, and he walked forward and took them._

"_I am my beloved's," she sang, "and my beloved is mine."_

"_You're quoting the old testament," he noted with surprise._

"_Don't you have faith?" she asked._

"_No," he answered. "I don't believe in God."_

"_Neither do I," she replied. "But do you have faith in anything?" she asked. "Do you have faith in me?"_

_He was silent._

"_I love you," she said, her voice as clear as a bell. "I will love you forever. Don't you believe that I am telling you the truth?"_

_He stared into her eyes, and they were very clear and soft. She wore the same yellow dress she had worn on that day in the greenhouse in France, and there were flowers twined in her dark hair._

_Finally, he found the courage to speak._

"_All I want is for your words to be true; and if they are not, then I wish always to be blind." _

_Her hands trembled suddenly within his grasp, and she let go of them, and clutched at her stomach. Her face turned ashen, and she let out a moan._

"_What's wrong?" he asked fearfully, and reached forward to pry her hands away; behind them he saw blood seeping through the cloth of her yellow dress. A terrible scream ripped through him._

"_Oh God," he cried, "Oh, no, no, no—Blair—"_

_He placed his hands over her stomach, pressing so hard on the wound that his knuckles shone white; but blood seeped through his fingers. _

"_She won't survive," interrupted a new voice, behind him._

_Chuck jerked his head around, breathing harshly, and saw a young boy with fair hair who had the face of someone Chuck loved—but it had been distorted almost beyond recognition._

_He clutched a dagger in his right hand and it was dripping with blood._

"_You did this?" cried Chuck with a wild desperation in his voice; "did you kill her?"_

"_No," Nate replied coldly. "You have only yourself to blame for that."_

_Wielding a bloody knife, Nate looked fiercer and more threatening than Chuck had ever imagined he could; strange, mad lights danced in his eyes. His ordinarily handsome face was frozen in a mask of fury. _

_Chuck turned away, focusing entirely on Blair, who lay very still on the ground. He held her small hand in his own, and it was as cold and lifeless as marble. He began to weep, hot, acidic tears that temporarily blinded him._

_Nate watched him cry, and after a few moments his mask began to melt away. When Chuck next looked up he saw only an ashen pale, freckled boy with haunted eyes. And then Nate turned away, and walked into the forest, and never looked back._

-

-

"Chuck?" came a worried voice from far away.

"Chuck." He felt his arm being roughly shaken, and then he felt suddenly as though his shoulder socket were being dislocated.

"Ow," he said, opening his eyes. "That was completely unnecessary." He rubbed his shoulder in feigned resentment; really he felt relieved to be free of the pull of such a vivid and horrible dream.

Blair pouted. "That's what you get for never telling me what your nightmares are about. What the hell was that?"

"I dreamt that Dan Humphrey was performing a naked rendition of 'I Feel Pretty' and I was forced to watch."

Blair couldn't help but crack a smile, and after making a few snide comments about the apparent danger she faced of her boyfriend leaving her for Dan, she disappeared into the bathroom to shower and perform her complex and lengthy daily beauty rituals.

As soon as Blair closed the door behind her Chuck let out a deep breath and rubbed his temples, shaken.

He crawled back into bed to rest for a few more minutes, settling in the exact spot Blair's body had warmed while she slept, and then he felt calmer. When he heard the shower turned off he climbed out of bed and got dressed. He got a newspaper from his desk and scanned the morning headlines while he waited for Blair to come out and fill him in on the schedule for that day. During the past few weeks Blair had been staying over frequently, and they had fallen into certain habits. They had a daily routine now: Blair would shower, and afterwards, while Chuck showered, she would write a list of all the things they were going to do that day. She would then show Chuck the schedule, which usually met with approval on his part, as well as some amusement; the lists were invariably meticulously organized down to the last detail, even allocating time for limo transportation, and sometimes extra time for whatever they chose to do in the limo that might be time-consuming.

He heard Blair turn on the blow dryer through the bathroom door. Soon enough he knew that she would come through that door with perfect hair and make up, all dressed up—and absolutely poised. Sometimes he wished that he could see the process. He wished he could watch her fix her hair elegantly, securing it with a headband, could watch her swipe mascara through her lashes and brush rouge across her cheeks. He could picture her doing these things, and to him it was an intimate and lovely picture. But she always locked the bathroom door, insisting that he could only see her when she was perfect.

Finally, the door opened, and Blair emerged, as perfect as he had expected. He put down his newspaper and leaned toward her to brush a tendril of hair behind her ear, and inhaled her delicate perfume.

"What's on the list today?" he asked.

She smiled mischievously. "You'll see."

He chuckled and walked past her into the bathroom, and when he observed the condensation on the mirror and the dewy drops of water on the shower curtain he frowned slightly, involuntarily.

"I don't understand why we have to shower separately every morning," he called over his shoulder to Blair. "I would much rather shower with you."

He could hear Blair's laughter in the other room. "You know perfectly well what showering together would lead to, Chuck Bass," she said.

"Yes I do," he replied. "And the problem with that is?"

"I'm on a morning schedule! I need to be at school on time; I don't need distractions."

"Distractions can be good when they involve wet, naked—"

"Alright," Blair interrupted loudly. "From now on we shower twice a day—alone in the morning and together at night. Deal?"

Chuck smirked as he stepped into the shower. "Deal," he asserted.

He tilted his face upwards in the shower so that the onslaught of water would hit it directly. He screwed his eyes shut and concentrated hard on the painful sensation, on clearing his mind, willing himself not to dwell on the most disturbing images and fragments from his dream. But Blair in her bloodstained yellow dress lingered there still and would not fade entirely, and it was vain to hope the pounding water would wash away the memory.

Chuck turned the water off, his mouth set in a grim line, and dressed himself. He tried to smile in the mirror, noticing Blair would be quick to notice that something was wrong if he did not try very hard to conceal it. And he convinced himself that he could not tell her; it would upset the delicate balance they had achieved. It was not the right time.

"Are you ready?" asked Blair impatiently. "We have an appointment."

"What might that be?" he asked, running a towel through his hair.

"We're going to the Met with Serena and then having coffee," said Blair brightly.

Chuck did not complain, though he did not relish the thought of seeing his step-sister, whom he felt sure did not approve of his relationship with Blair. But he shrugged, thinking that she might after all distract Blair from minding Chuck's troubles.

They found Serena in the impressionism wing, texting on her blackberry instead of looking at the paintings.

"Oh, hey," she looked up and smiled at Blair, ignoring Chuck for the moment. "Sorry; I was just checking in with Dan."

"That's fine," said Blair. "Have you been here long?"

"No," replied Serena, returning her blackberry to her purse and then placing her hands on her hips awkwardly. "I just got here. Were you looking for me long?"

"No," Blair shook her head.

A brief, uncomfortable silence ensued. Why am I awkward with my best friend? Blair mused. It is, I suppose, the first time Chuck and I have gone on an outing in public as a couple…she glanced at Chuck, and was struck suddenly by how pale and drawn he was. There were tight lines around his mouth and eyes, as if he were compressing something.

She saw Serena looking curiously at Chuck too, and she cast about for something to say.

"How's Dan?" she said finally. "I haven't talked to him in a while."

"He's great," said Serena brightly, "he wants to see you and…" her smile faded a bit, "actually he mentioned something about wanting to see you and Chuck, too."

Chuck snorted. "What, like a double date?"

Blair colored slightly; Serena looked faintly annoyed.

"I think it's a good idea," said Blair firmly. Chuck glanced at her, incredulous.

"What?" her voice was sharp. "He's one of my best friends, after all."

"Well, let's do dinner then," said Serena with an expression that said, clearly, "okay, what the hell!"

"Good," Blair agreed. Chuck suddenly left her side to look more closely at the paintings in the gallery.

"Something's bothering him," Blair sighed, when he was out of earshot.

"What is it?" asked Serena curiously, following him with her gaze.

"I don't know," admitted Blair, in a tone of fatigue and defeat. "With him, it could be a million things."

"I think I might know," said Serena seriously, blinking her blue eyes.

Blair was taken aback. "What?" she asked urgently.

"I've been in touch with Nate," explained Serena. "The two of them had a fight. Nate hates him, really hates him—he called him many names over the phone."

"That's hardly news," said Blair.

"Well, it's been ongoing," elaborated Serena, "and I think it's worse than you might think."

"Worse than Nate attacking him in public?" asked Blair sharply.

Serena only patted her arm sympathetically in response.

Blair sighed. Then she looked up, and saw that Chuck was walking back towards her, and her heart lifted a bit in spite of everything.

"What do you think of Monet?" she asked.

Chuck shrugged. "He was a skillful but short-lived decorator."

Blair rolled her eyes. "We don't have to talk about art if you don't want to."

"Good," said Chuck, "I've been to this wing of the Met a million times, and I hate impressionism anyway."

"Fine," she snapped. "Let's talk about something else."

Chuck arched his eyebrows. "Did you have a specific topic in mind?"

"Yes," Blair said, feeling emboldened. "Serena has been talking to Nate, and apparently he absolutely detests you and thinks you're a worthless bastard." Her voice softened towards the end in sympathy for him, and she almost regretted bringing up the subject at all.

Chuck froze. "I've been called worse things by better men," he said frostily. But Blair knew better.

"Isn't there anything we could do—to try to salvage your friendship? I know how much he means to you—"

"No," Chuck spat. "He doesn't mean anything to me, and there's nothing anyone can do."

Blair's eyes flashed. "That's a lie," she said firmly. "And maybe if you actually made an effort--"

"Enough," interrupted Serena. "Enough—both of you. Can we please just go get coffee? Unless anyone actually wants to look at art."

Chuck felt momentarily grateful to Serena.

"Nate has other friends, anyway," continued Serena, "friends who don't lie to him or steal his girlfriend."

And just like that, the gratitude was gone. Serena steered them towards a nearby café while Chuck seethed.

"That's pretty rich, _you_ condemning _me_ for stealing my best friend's girlfriend. At least I didn't feel the urge to flee the country afterwards like a silly blonde prat."

The waitress brought their cappuccinos and Blair pursed her lips to keep from grinning as she stirred sugar into her coffee. She was slightly amused in spite of herself.

"Chuck," said Serena distastefully, "if you were my boyfriend, I'd put poison in your coffee."

Chuck smirked and replied, "Serena, if you were my girlfriend, I would drink it."

***

Chuck liked to stay up late at night because during the day he never had time to think. Or maybe that wasn't it exactly; he had time to think, but his most interesting ideas came to him at night. The daylight hours were more cheerful, always well-ordered. There was always something to be done, one needed always to be practical and to concentrate on daily concerns. Chuck liked to go for walks at night. He liked sitting on a solitary bench in the park, shrouded in darkness, only the sound of the wind swooshing through trees for company. The world was transformed when everybody was asleep, and he awake; she felt its mystery and its beauty more acutely. There was a certain solitude, in the park at night, beyond the power of romance or fancy; sometimes beyond pain. At school he felt alone but his awareness of the fact was impeded by artificial restraints on his attention; by meaningless interactions with other students, by the need to study, or in his case, to pretend to take notes. At night in the park there were no distractions and he could see through the trees to the gate at the end of the park, to the road beyond it. It made him feel more alive, and also less so. The wind, and the air, the stars--all beloved by the poets, whom he had read. But sometimes they seemed to him only to be gas and vapor, particles, and cold emptiness, and hollow stars. And other times he could form no such impressions, was struck dumb, had to let it soak into his skin. He grew to like this the best. Am I alone in my estrangement, he wondered, or is that the secret burden that all men carry? At night he thought, I understand nothing of this boundless universe; I am so small, and so ignorant and confused, and so insignificant.

Sitting on his bench in the park, Chuck drew his blackberry out of his pocket on impulse. He texted Blair, telling her where he was and asking her to join him. It was the first time he had ever even thought of sharing his private, intense little world of the night with anyone else.

She did not reply, and a wave of disappointment washed through him. He sat there still, but he no longer felt the usual wonder and mystery of the stars and the park. He felt only lonely and cold, and he began to think about leaving.

And then, suddenly, he saw a slim figure—only a dark silhouette in the night—approaching him, and his heart began to pound in his chest irregularly. He recognized her immediately even though he couldn't see her; it was a recognition that went beyond the way she looked to the way she was.

"Chuck," she said softly, as she emerged from the shadows.

"You came," he whispered, shifting so that she could sit on the park bench beside him.

"Of course I did," she smiled.

"I'm glad you did," he replied, and his eyes were warm. He took her hand in his own and her fingers burned at the touch. Her heart fluttered irregularly in her chest; she had not seen him let his guard down like this in a while. She knew that she had a chance now, and that she ought to take it.

"Now," she said in a quiet but decisive voice, "you have to tell me why you've been having nightmares, and what they have been about." She was about to add, _it hurts me that you keep it from me,_ but she thought better of it.

Chuck sighed deeply. "I always have nightmares," he said. "It's not a recent phenomenon."

Blair stared at him.

"I know," he said, answering her unasked question. "It's a bad thing. And it's strange. But I don't know why it is, and I can't tell you."

He chose not to tell her that they had gotten worse recently. He did not tell her that they always featured her—and recently, also Nate. Several nights ago he dreamt that he was attending Blair and Nate's wedding. Since then, his dreams had grown more strange and frightening. Two nights ago he dreamt that he was in a room full of mirrors, and that the only way out was through a narrow doorway in which Nate was standing, barring Chuck from exiting. And in the dream Nate said to Chuck, "Blair is outside this room, and the only way to get past me is to kill me."

And Chuck did not want to kill him; but he kicked him and hit him many times, until he fell on the floor gasping in pain, and he watched himself doing these things in the mirror. This went on until Nate had finally had enough, and Chuck was at last able to push past him and out the door.

But Nate grabbed onto his ankle as he tried to leave:

"Remember," he whispered, flinching from the pain, "remember that you were mine first."

And with that the dream ended. It had been the second-worst dream to date; the worst was the dream he had had just the night before.

Chuck shuddered as he remembered it, and wrapped his arm around Blair to remind himself that she was warm and alive, and tried to forget.


	26. Chapter 26: The Slightest Fear

Author's note: I'm sorry, I'm sorry, the next update actually WILL be soon, I promise! Especially if you review. :)

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"When I'm with you, nothing seems terrible to me, not even leaving you. But away from you, the slightest fear is unbearable. I love you passionately—I'm empty and miserable without you. S.* has been very sweet, and the first evening I was touched by seeing her again—but already she bores and rather irritates me, and her presence at this moment strikes me as absurd…I love you, with a touch of tragedy and quite madly."

—Simone de Beauvoir_; an extract from a love letter to Jean Paul Sartre_.

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"You seem much happier these days, you know," Dan commented as he dipped the end of his croissant into his coffee.

"Well, I am, for obvious reasons," said Blair, blushing a bit. Then she looked down at his coffee. "Ew, why are you doing that? Croissants aren't meant to be eaten damp."

Dan shrugged. "I don't have proper croissant-eating etiquette, I guess."

"No, certainly not. Madame Girard would be appalled."

"Why do you insist on calling her that? She's _Ms. _Girard_—"_

"She's our _French _teacher, so you're supposed to call her "Madame"!" said Blair indignantly.

"Whatever," Dan replied indifferently. "Anyway, is Chuck being nice to you?"

"Yes, of course," said Blair.

"Good. I'd like to meet him."

Blair rolled her eyes. "You've met him a million times, Humphrey."

"I know," said Dan, who had the grace to be embarrassed, "I mean—properly, as your boyfriend. He's your boyfriend, right?"

"I guess," said Blair uncomfortably. "I mean, I don't know. I don't really like that word."

"Well," Dan pointed out reasonably, "you're practically living at his house, aren't you? And I don't really understand why you're in love with him, but you seem to be."

"I can hardly explain to you why I'm in love with him."

"Why not try?" Dan suggested.

"Why are you in love with Serena?" countered Blair.

Dan blushed uncomfortably.

"Oh, go on," Blair cajoled. "Since you think it's so easy to do."

"Well, I don't really know," Dan stumbled. "I guess no one really knows, do they—it's complex, and a lot of it is beyond even my understanding."

"Summarize," ordered Blair curtly.

"Alright," said Dan, "she's kind and generous in her affections, she's beautiful and sweet, she has an infectious laugh..." he shrugged. "She makes me feel alive, I guess. Wait, that sounds stupid."

"Yes, it does, Humphrey," Blair sniggered.

He looked affronted and slightly hurt.

"Oh, don't get your panties all in a twist," she said dismissively.

"Ooh," Dan mocked her, "such coarse language from an upper east side princess! All those society matrons will be appalled—"

"What can I say," Blair shrugged, "you bring out the low-class _Brooklyn _in me."

Dan had to take a moment to shake his head in baffled amusement at the way she pronounced the word "Brooklyn", as if it were not merely a place, but an attitude, a socio-economic status, and an entire lifestyle.

"Look," he said eventually, "I think we should all have dinner. I'd like to get to know him properly; I think he and I got off on the wrong foot. And I find him very intriguing."

"That sounds good," Blair agreed, "I can book a place—"

"Why don't you let me cook?" asked Dan. "I'm actually a brilliant cook, my dad taught me. Well, I'm pretty good. Reasonable."

Blair raised an eyebrow.

"Anyway," Dan continued, "If I make an effort, that might endear me to him, and it's the least I can do, really. We can eat at my place."

Dan had not forgotten the time he had betrayed Chuck's trust for the sake of getting into Yale, and he was eager to pay penance.

"Humphrey," said Blair, "I know that we're friends now and everything, but—" her lip curled in disdain, "you can't be serious."

"Hanging out in Brooklyn can be fun," replied Dan. "You can call it a 'white trash night out.' A social experiment; a rare glimpse of how the huddled masses live." Dan tried to keep a straight face.

It worked. Blair burst into laughter. "Fine," she said, "we'll do it."

"Great!" Dan smiled brightly.

"I think it's nice," said Blair thoughtfully, "that you want to make an effort, and are willing to, you know, give him a chance." She glanced down at her own coffee. "It's nice to have at least one friend who feels that way."

"Serena's being difficult?" asked Dan, cutting straight to the point.

"Yes," Blair sighed, "they just can't get along. I know she's just trying to look out for me, but really. She's extremely irritating."

Dan nodded. "She's been on edge lately anyway. She's been spending so much time with the two of you, and when you're constantly with the same people—"

"I know," said Blair regretfully, "I've been splitting my time between Serena and Chuck for ages because I don't like being home."

With Blair's mother, Dan thought to himself, she could hardly be blamed.

"Well," he replied, "if we can have an enjoyable group dinner, that might clear the air."

***

"God, Humphrey, what is this horrible stuff?" Blair winced as she set her wine glass down.

"Extremely cheap white wine," Chuck responded for Dan, examining the bottle. "From California, apparently." Next to him, Blair shuddered.

Dan and Serena exchanged a look of some amusement.

"Sorry," said Dan, "I thought it would go well with the food. You know, I read in Food and Wine Magazine that white wine in particular goes very well with—"

"You know, Humphrey," Chuck interrupted, "it has just occurred to me that your inferiority complex is fully justified."

Blair couldn't help but chuckle a bit.

"Thanks," Dan replied sarcastically, but there was no edge to it; he knew better than to be offended.

"Don't you have anything else?"

"Yeah, my Dad has a special cabinet where he keeps all his alcohol," began Dan nervously, "It's actually in his bedroom. And I'm not really supposed to—"

"Come on," said Blair briskly, getting to her feet and nearly dragging Dan out of his chair. "Show me where this magical cabinet is."

Dan followed her, muttering, through the kitchen.

Serena and Chuck sat uncomfortably, not meeting each other's eyes, as they waited for Blair and Dan to return.

But then Chuck began to think. It was time to bury the hatchet with Serena. He had something that might do the trick.

"Serena," he said rather hesitantly, drawing a small box from his pocket, "I bought a present for Blair this morning—would you mind looking at it and giving me your opinion? I know you know better than anyone what Blair's taste in jewelry is—"

He heard her sharp intake of breath.

"Jewelry?" she hissed.

She reached across the table and took it from his hand and opened it; inside was an expensively cut sapphire ring.

"You got her a ring?" Serena's voice was incredulous.

"It's not an engagement ring," Chuck muttered, feeling ill at ease; he took the ring back and returned it to his pocket, deeply regretting taking it out in the first place.

"It's just—"

"A _promise _ring?" asked Serena mockingly.

"It's just a present," said Chuck defensively. "It's sort of our anniversary coming up, if you must know."

Serena pursed her lips and did not reply, and a wave of anger swept through Chuck. He glared at Serena across the table, and all of her flaws had never seemed more apparent to him as they did now. Her features, not as delicate and even as Blair's, seemed to him plain and harsh. She was wearing one of her low-cut dresses, which he decided really pushed the boundaries of taste (though he never used to have a problem with them). Her blonde hair, recently cut, was stupidly pulled into a seemingly careless messy bun, which he knew was part of her effort to look bohemian and carefree. Blair was prissy, but at least she didn't attempt to deny who she was—Serena was as much upper east side royalty as Blair. Blair, at least, always looked like a lady.

"What is your problem, Serena?" Chuck hissed.

"I just have a better memory than Blair and Dan apparently do," Serena replied. "Usually Blair is less forgiving than I am, but she completely loses all rationality when it comes to you. And Dan is indulging her for some reason. But," she went on, and leaned over the table to lower her voice to a whisper, "_I have not forgotten everything you've done to her._"

Chuck flinched involuntarily.

"I'm trying to change," he said, but Serena was not touched by his forlorn tone.

"Buying her a ring doesn't make it all go away, Chuck," she said severely. "You keep secrets from her—you haven't even told her that you love her, have you?"

Chuck did not reply.

"That's what I thought," finished Serena, looking grim. "You're not fooling me or Nate—"

"Leave Nate out of this," snarled Chuck. His eyes had grown cold.

Serena almost started when she heard his tone.

"And you're not the only one who has a long memory, Serena," Chuck went on. "You betrayed her, too. Don't forget that."

Serena paled, but seemed to have nothing further to say.

Chuck sighed inwardly when he heard Blair and Dan traipsing back through the kitchen, and he drank some water and tried to relax his face into a smile.

Blair plopped the new bottle of wine cheerfully on the table.

"My Dad's going to kill me," Dan was saying, "that's our oldest vintage, we save it for special occasions—"

"This _is _a special occasion," replied Blair, giggling. "My body can't handle substandard wine; my palate is too refined. I might go into shock, and then you'd have to explain to your father why Blair Waldorf is dead in your living room."

Dan rolled his eyes, but chuckled in good humor. Blair sat down once again beside Chuck and grinned at him; he tried to smile back, but she saw the tension in his eyes and jaw.

"What's wrong?" she asked softly.

"Nothing," he replied, and took her hand in his under the table and squeezed it reassuringly.

Her desire, her love for him was so strong, so overwhelming, that it terrified her sometimes. But what frightened her most was that she knew, intuitively, that even though they were finally together, she didn't _really _have him. The darkest corners and recesses of him were hidden away from her. He kept them secret; she only caught a glimpse, sometimes, in his eyes. There was some shadow cast over his soul, and she ached to understand what it was and to soothe it. But he wouldn't let her. So even as he held her hand under the table and he bantered with Dan and Serena, even as they ate dinner like a normal couple on a double date, she was in agony.

She glanced sideways at his animated face; his brilliant dark eyes, his delicate and chiseled cheekbones, thrown into even more stark relief by the candlelight, his lips curving into a smirk in response to some comment made by Dan. She could see no darkness there, but she knew it lurked under the surface.

She clenched his fingers more tightly in her own. "How can I know," she thought, and in her mind the words were laced with yearning and with despair, "How can I know what is in your mind—if you won't tell me?" Chuck, of course, did not hear her silent plea, and it went unheeded.

"Blair, what do you think of Serena's new haircut?" asked Dan as he took a sip of his best wine.

"What?" asked Blair blankly; she had not been listening, and she apologized to Dan, wide-eyed, her face a little pale even by the illumination of candlelight.

"Never mind," Dan said gently, and with more than a little concern.

But Blair had stopped listening again. She was consumed by fear and doubt, and she felt all her old insecurities concerning Chuck resurfacing. She was used to these feelings when she was alone; away from him, the slightest fear was unbearable. She could convince herself so easily that he did not love her, that she did not really know him, that it was all a charade—and that she was really alone. Normally, Chuck's mere presence was enough to dispel these thoughts. To see him, to touch him, to hear him speak: this was all the happiness and fulfillment she could wish for. But it seemed that as time went on he grew more and more distant, more alienated from her—or rather, she had more and more trouble pretending that everything was well with the two of them. She was by nature very good at pretending and at putting on a show; she was such a convincing liar that she usually wound up persuading herself of things that she knew, deep down, weren't true. But she couldn't bring herself to lie, even to herself. Not when it came to _him_.

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* The original letter was K, not S.


	27. Chapter 27: Your Laughter

Author's note: I hope you enjoy this chapter, which has tended to dwell more on Chuck's thoughts and feelings (which I know I haven't dealt with until now very explicitly). Please keep reviewing; apart from providing an ego boost, haha, reviews do help me focus my writing and help me pick a direction for the story overall. For instance, one reviewer mentioned s/he would like to see more of Dan and Blair, so I have decided to let Dan play a much bigger role in the story, and the two most recent chapters have resoundingly demonstrated that. I love hearing your perspective and I take it very seriously! : )

P.S. I advise reading the poem carefully—it's incredibly lovely (and possibly my favorite poem of all time).

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YOUR LAUGHTER

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Take bread away from me, if you wish,

take air away, but

do not take from me your laughter.

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Do not take away the rose,

the lanceflower that you pluck,

the water that suddenly

bursts forth in your joy,

the sudden wave

of silver born in you.

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My struggle is harsh and I come back

with eyes tired

at times from having seen

the unchanging earth,

but when your laughter enters

it rises to the sky seeking me

and it opens for me all

the doors of life.

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My love, in the darkest

hour your laughter

opens, and if suddenly

you see my blood staining

the stones of the street,

laugh, because your laughter

will be for my hands

like a fresh sword.

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Next to the sea in the autumn,

your laughter must raise

its foamy cascade,

and in the spring, love,

I want your laughter like

the flower I was waiting for,

the blue flower, the rose

of my echoing country.

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Laugh at the night,

at the day, at the moon,

laugh at the twisted

streets of the island,

laugh at this clumsy

boy who loves you,

but when I open

my eyes and close them,

when my steps go,

when my steps return,

deny me bread, air,

light, spring,

but never your laughter

for I would die.

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by Pablo Neruda

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Sometimes Chuck would notice that Blair looked at him with reproach when he was distant with her. She seemed to perceive that there was a darkness cast over his eyes, an invisible weight—one that he would not share with her. He always fought his own battles, had always been an intensely private person. And he felt as though he couldn't change. It was too deeply engrained; it was a survival mechanism to him throughout the years, protecting him from a cold and barren childhood, and then impossible to cast off afterwards. And another part of him didn't want to change, for in his innermost heart he feared that Blair would find little to love in him if she were allowed to probe too deeply. And this was a truth he only half-knew, because it was buried inside him somewhere deep, where he ached.

And though he repressed this knowledge so well that, rationally, he never knew it, the fear washed over him when he was asleep and his subconscious took over. It had gone through and through him, like wine through water, and altered the color of his dreams.

He tried to make up for his shortcomings in different ways. Any affection he could not verbalize he expressed physically. She was almost overwhelmed—and deeply surprised—by his tenderness at times; how he seemed able only to fall asleep when she was pressed against his chest, how he held her hand as they walked down the street. To think that he had once denied the possibility of their ever holding hands! He shook his head, now, at the memory. It seemed he only felt calm and sure of himself when he was physically connected with her in some way, in any way at all. He liked to shower her with thoughtful little gifts, hoping that they might make her laugh; one day he commissioned the family painter (so to speak; he was an artist Bart Bass had hired to paint family portraits many years ago, most of which were later stuffed in closets and never saw the light of day). Chuck instructed him to paint the figure of a woman dressed like Holly Golightly from _Breakfast at Tiffany's_—tall, thin, a black dress, an elegant pipe and elegant hair, many diamonds of course—except he further instructed that the artist replace Audrey Hepburn's face with Blair's. Blair laughed hysterically when he showed her the finished portrait, and called it silly, and Chuck had tried to quell her laughter by kissing her repeatedly until she admonished him, breathlessly, saying: "Gossip Girl is overflowing with snapshots of our _very_ public displays of affection already, Bass, and I don't need more fodder for my nightmares." Chuck felt a certain light sensation in his chest—almost like butterflies—airy, fluttering, bright—every time he heard Blair laugh; it was the closest he ever came to feeling happy.

But all along Chuck knew that it was not enough for her.

"You were upset about something last night," said Blair, keeping her voice carefully neutral.

Chuck had just picked out a tie and paused before drawing it around his neck. "I was not," he contradicted her.

"Let me fix that for you," she said softly, walking to him and deftly tying it and straightening out his collar. Her fingers brushed against his neck.

"Please tell me," she said, lifting her wide brown eyes entreatingly to his, and he ran his fingers through her perfume-scented hair.

"I had a bit of a spat with Serena," he said finally, tucking a curl behind her ear. The extremely bright morning sunlight streaming in through the window, combined with her perfume—or else the underlying scent of her skin, which he had many times tried to find an equivalent to in the natural world but which eluded definition—was making him slightly dizzy.

"Why? What happened?" She bit her lower lip in worry, and Chuck was somewhat distracted by the action.

"Focus," she said severely. But he leaned forward to kiss her instead.

He paused, his lips a fraction of an inch from her own; she could inhale his hot breath, and the sensation made her hiss sharply.

"I _am_ focusing," he whispered, smirking slightly.

"Tell me about Serena," she insisted faintly.

He traced her jaw line with his thumb, and the smirk widened into his trademark crooked grin when he felt her shiver.

"She acts as though she hates me," he murmured, twining strands of her tumbled chestnut hair in his fingers, "but Freud teaches that violent hostility is often really just sublimated sexual attraction."

Blair snorted. "Serena? Attracted to _you_? I think she'd rather have sex with Georgina Sparks than with you."

"It's a tough call," Chuck drawled. "Maybe she does indulge in a lesbian fantasy from time to time. In fact, " his eyes lit up, "you may have hit on the reason she hates me—jealousy that I've been keeping you all to myself. Selfish of me, really. Maybe I should share. That is, " he added, "as long she lets me watch."

"You're disgusting," Blair said, even as she choked back a giggle.

"I knew there was some homoerotic tension underlying all her intense ya-ya sisterhood bullshit—"

Blair silenced him by leaning forward a fraction of an inch and kissing him, and he entirely lost his train of thought in a haze of ardent desire, in her pulse racing under her delicate skin, in her flower-scented hair. And, in a daze, he tasted on her warm, crimson lips the sunshine of a hundred summer mornings.

**

"You have to love her," said Dan, slurring his words a bit.

"Excuse me?" said Chuck sharply. He had run into Dan in the library after school (where he had gone to scout out some old French Catherine de Neuve films which he felt sure Blair would love) and had invited him out, on impulse, for a drink. He was not sure why he had done so, in retrospect; partly out of boredom because Blair was with her mother for the day, or perhaps he was simply craving male company. Dan had looked rather taken aback—he was probably not used to drinking in the afternoon, Chuck mused—but he had consented. So both had proceeded to a bar, each feeling slightly shocked to be in the company of the other. Chuck was beginning to regret asking Dan very much, because Dan had proven quickly that he couldn't hold his liquor, and was furthermore intent on talking about Blair.

"And that's not enough," Dan went on, waving an arm drunkenly, "—you have to _really _love her, in the all-consuming-forever way she loves you. If you don't she'll be _crushed_."

Chuck snorted. "I think you should give up your literary aspirations, Humphrey, and stick to something you're mentally equipped for." He paused thoughtfully. "Perhaps you should be a mechanic," he suggested.

Dan finished his thought as though he had not heard Chuck. "You bear that weight on your shoulders," he pronounced, rather grandiosely. He was maudlin drunk.

"Humphrey," Chuck drawled, "what exactly does your big head compensate for?"

Dan ignored the jibe. "I'm serious."

Chuck's eyes darkened. "What makes you so sure she loves me that way?"

Dan stared pensively out into space, his eyes unfocused. He chose his words carefully. "For Blair," he said, "love is like a religion. It's how she makes sense of life."

Chuck started.

"She doesn't love the way an ordinary teenage girl loves," Dan continued hastily. It's…it's something else. I don't really understand it. But I think you are the same way."

"How do you know this?" asked Chuck.

"Because," said Dan, "I am the only person in the world who has ever really taken care of her. I've seen her at her most vulnerable; even Serena hasn't, not really. And Blair was always too busy worrying about Serena to let Serena worry about her."

"And who else was there?" mused Chuck, almost under his breath. "Not Eleanor…not Harold." His eyes darkened further. "And certainly not Nate."

He turned to Dan, and said very seriously and sadly, "the reason she's like that is…." he trailed off, and then finished simply,"because no one has ever loved her enough."

Dan gazed, almost mesmerized, at the singular, remarkable boy sitting beside him, calmly tossing back his scotch as if he had said nothing of importance, had not unveiled a great, intimate secret—to Dan Humphrey, whom he had surely always considered beneath his contempt. It was incomprehensible.

To Dan, Charles Bass was a fascinating enigma, forever shrouded in mystery and darkness. He could never imagine he would ever penetrate that mystery, that he would ever get another chance to see what was behind the veil. But he could hardly be more interested and eager to know more. He had always loved characters; his love of literature was not for nothing. His hands shook slightly with excitement as he dared to ask a question, and, rather predictably, overreached.

"Has anyone ever loved _you_ enough?"

He wished he could withdraw the words as soon as he spoke them. He expected Chuck's disgust; his horror that Dan had let a note of pity creep into his voice, anger that he had presumed a level of confidence that as a mere acquaintance he did not at all deserve. But Chuck merely laughed, sounding rather bleak.

"You sound incredibly gay sometimes, Humphrey," he said dryly.

"Sorry," Dan mumbled. "Anyway, it's a dumb question, since Blair loves you more than enough—"

"I don't think so," Chuck protested quietly. He had had two more shots of tequila and his eyes had unfocused, slightly, as if he were concentrating hard on something in the distance. He was a quiet, brooding, contemplative drunk—alcohol seemed to help him narrow his focus, help him face the thoughts he usually avoided, the ones that were painful to him.

Dan felt a ray of hope; he had not ruined his chances, then. Very carefully, he asked, "Why not?"

"She loves with all the intensity that she was starved of most of her life," said Chuck, almost as if he were surprised to hear himself speak, "—but I think that she doesn't really love _me. _She just loves that I am alone and damaged like she is, and she thinks she can fix me. And one day she's going to wake up and realize that—" he broke off, the edge of his voice ragged, and his breath was slightly labored.

He stared at Dan, white.

"I don't know how you do it," he said, "how you get me to talk so much. Your inquisitive silence is too much to resist." He shook his head in amazement, and then recovered somewhat. "I swear," he said with a wry smile, "you would pry secrets from the dead."

"I'm a good listener," said Dan, and, oddly, he had to quash the urge to smile back. He had not realized Chuck had such a dramatic flair about him. It was rather endearing.

But Chuck had stopped paying attention to him. He was in another world now, his eyes again unfocused, gleaming through the haze of the afternoon sunlight, which set millions of dust motes on fire so that they drifted through the air above him until they landed and turned to ash. He leaned forward so that he was thrown into illumination, resting his elbows on the wooden bar. He looked like a dark angel dressed as a schoolboy in his white shirtsleeves with his mussed hair and his darkly shadowed eyes. He lifted up his glass to the light so that the amber liquid turned an even more brilliant golden shade and stared at it abstractedly.

"As long as I can make her laugh," he said hazily to himself, forgetting Dan, "as long as I can make her happy—for now—isn't that enough? Or am I doing the wrong thing—?"

Such a look of helpless dread descended on Chuck's features that Dan felt as if an icy fist had closed over his own heart. He did not know what to say, and he knew it would make no difference. Chuck was beyond his reach.

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*I borrowed this line from _Wuthering Heights: _I have dreamed in my life, dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas; they have gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the color of my mind.


	28. Chapter 28: Four Things

Author's note: Thanks for the reviews, and keep them coming! They motivate me to continue.

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**Four Things Make Us Happy Here**

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Health is the first good lent to men;

A gentle disposition then:

Next, to be rich by no by-ways;

Lastly, with friends t' enjoy our days.

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Robert Herrick

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Serena had come to feel, ever since she had reaped the consequences of her ill-advised dalliance with Nate, that betraying a loved one is possibly the worst crime a person can ever commit. She had become fiercely protective of her small circle of chosen friends—as Blair had once been, when she dubbed them "the non-judging breakfast club." And so it angered and saddened her that the non-judging breakfast club had disintegrated because the heart and core of it—Blair—had abandoned all of them for Chuck. Or so it seemed to her; for the few times Blair made time to see her, it was obvious that her thoughts were elsewhere, except when the conversation turned to Chuck, as it often did. Blair had only spoken to Dan once until that disastrous dinner. And the greatest assault on the breakfast club was, of course, Nate's complete exile from it. All for the sake of Chuck! This seemed bitterly ironic to Serena, since protecting Blair from Chuck had been the reason, after all, for the regrouping of the non-judging breakfast club in the first place. A small, nagging part of her insisted that Chuck had been a member of the original club, too, before it had been turned against him—but Serena quashed that thought with some discomfort.

She was on her way to one of Blair's favorite restaurants, where a breakfast club (sans Nate) reunion was scheduled to occur. She was happy Blair was making an effort to stay in touch again, but she couldn't help but wish that Nate had been invited in place of Chuck.

"You're having drinks with Chuck," Serena told herself severely, "and you have to be polite. Even if he isn't. Which he won't be."

After being on the receiving end of a very severe telling off from Blair (which occurred after Chuck had confessed to Blair that he'd had a fight with Serena), she was in a mood to be polite and tolerant. _Hell hath no fury like Blair Waldorf when pissed off, _she thought to herself grimly, rewording the phrase she had read on Gossip Girl.

She shook out her golden mane and took in a deep, calming breath. She had reached the front door; bracing herself, she opened it and sauntered towards the bar. She could see the silhouettes of two teenage boys, both with dark hair, both with their backs turned to her. She paused behind them, undetected, curious to hear what they talked about when alone together. She knew she had a moment to observe silently; she and Blair were supposed to arrive together, but Blair had doubled back to pick up her blackberry, which she had forgotten on Serena's bed.

Chuck was staring at Dan. "You talk too much," he said. "Didn't you know, as a writer, that you're supposed to practice economy in language? Every word you use should be essential and necessary to advance the plot of the narrative. Or, in this case, the flow of the conversation." He paused to order a drink, and then finished sternly, "The first thing a good writer knows is to avoid wordiness and redundancy. And for god's sake, stop stammering so much, it's off-putting."

Dan rolled his eyes. "I always stammer, Chuck. I'm incapable of forming coherent, non-excessive sentences. That's why I like to write, as opposed to speak."

"Because your writing is non-stammery?" asked Chuck, amused.

"Well, yes," said Dan, trying to maintain some dignity. "My prose does not stammer. It is lucid, engaging, eloquent--dare I say engrossing?"

"Positively titillating," smirked Chuck. "Whoops, I meant 'scintillating.' Excuse the Freudian slip. "

"Doesn't 'titillating' mean 'sexually arousing'?" asked Serena, sliding onto the stool next to Dan's.

"Glad to see you've been studying for the SAT," said Chuck. He paused to look around him. "So you got here, finally, does that mean Blair's here too?"

"Right behind you," called Blair's voice.

Chuck flashed her a rare smile; glowing inside, she sat down next to him, and he leaned over to flick an errant strand of hair out of her eyes.

"What did we miss?" Blair asked rather breathlessly.

"I was just disputing Dan's authorly talents."

"Authorly' isn't a word," said Dan crossly.

"Didn't Shakespeare coin words all the time?" inquired Chuck, hardly containing his mirth.

"You're not Shakespeare," Dan muttered darkly.

"And you _are _on a par with Shakespeare?"

"No," Dan sputtered, "of course n—"

But Chuck interrupted him as if he had not spoken. "Prove it," he demanded, with a theatrical sweep of his arms. "Prove to me that you do actually possess a talent for writing."

"How?" asked Dan, his cheeks rather red.

"Make up a poem on the spot," suggested Chuck. "About—" he looked to his left—"Blair. Come on Humphrey, I know that you're in an improvisational comedy troupe that meets twice a week after school."

Dan sputtered. "It looks good on my résumé—"

"I don't care about your stupid club, Humphrey," said Chuck, grinning. "Go on, I dare you."

Dan thought for a moment, then tossed back a shot of tequila.

"Here goes," he said, and shook out his head as if to clear it.

"There once lived a young lady named Blair," he began after a moment, "who had style and wit to spare—" he paused.

"She killed freshmen without a care," offered Chuck.

"Without so much as a toss of her hair," Dan continued with a wicked smile, "so all freshmen had better beware!"

Blair snorted into her drink. "A toss of her hair?" she mocked. "That doesn't even really make sense. Not up to your usual standards, Humphrey."

Dan continued, undeterred.

"If a freshman forgot her station,

Or threatened Blair's reputation,

She would dig up some dirt on that pour soul,

Utter destruction her sole goal,

And find their dark secret to tell,

Then drag that freshman down into hell."

"Too many syllables in the last line," Chuck critiqued.

"Oh, shut up," Serena admonished. "Don't be so nit-picky. That was great."

"Very Shel Silverstein," Blair drawled.

"Oh, Blair," Dan declaimed,

"You are so unfair!

But I would not challenge you--

No, I would not dare--

I just cower, I have no power,

Under your withering glare.

Oh Blair,

You are truly beyond compare--

You fill your enemies with despair,

And they had better take care,

For you will harm them beyond repair.

So imperious upon her throne,

The whole upper east side she outshone,

To no one was she unknown,

And when she grew angry,

The entire school was a danger zone!

Oh Blair,

She rules with an iron fist,

and she refuses to coexist--"

"Enough," interrupted Blair, laughing. "I can't take this anymore. I'll crush you with my iron fist, Dan, if you do not desist, so consider yourself dismissed."

Serena smiled at Blair admiringly; Dan chuckled. Chuck merely smirked and finished his drink.

"I think I'll title it 'The Evil Queen of the Steps,' finished Dan with a theatrical flair.

"I certainly am evil," Blair nodded appreciatively. _Trust her to take that as a compliment_, thought Serena to herself.

"Did you really just make that up on the spot?" Serena asked Dan, rather amazed.

"Well, okay, fine, I wrote part of it before math class when I was bored," Dan admitted sheepishly.

"Some people," opined Blair, "have far too much time on their hands."

"Well, color me impressed, Humphrey," said Chuck, who had finished his drink. "My only constructive criticism is that you kept switching back and forth between tenses. Also, the meter was off. Do try to be more consistent and grammatical next time you write an epic poem about my girlfriend."

Serena glanced up at him sharply when he said "girlfriend", but made no comment. Blair smiled, pleased.

"I'll do my best," grinned Dan.

"Maybe we should have a statue built for Blair, on the steps, and have that inscribed on it," said Chuck thoughtfully. "Strike terror into the hearts of freshmen everywhere."

Dan, Serena, and Blair all snorted.

"On the subject of annoying freshmen," said Blair when they had all more or less recovered, "please tell your sister, Humphrey, that my mother requires her assistance tomorrow. She's refitting two of the Versace gowns I'm going to wear on the runway next week."

"I'll pass along the message," said Dan.

"You're going to be in a Versace show!" squealed Serena. "I can't get over that! It's so exciting."

"The fashion world won't know what hit it," said Chuck, placing a hand on Blair's knee. She thought she detected a hint of pride in his voice, and she smiled smugly.

"Incidentally, is Penelope back at school?" Serena inquired.

Chuck was silent.

Blair twisted around to look at him. "You _did_ tell her it's okay to go back to school, right, Chuck?"

Chuck remained stubbornly silent.

"Really," Blair rolled her eyes. "And I thought I was the vindictive one--"

"Seeing her around Constance would continually remind me of her existence," said Chuck in the tone of a martyr. "Blotting her out of my memory will be impossible if she's always skulking around on school grounds."

Blair sniggered. Serena frowned at her reprovingly.

"Still," Blair said, collecting herself, "a deal is a deal, Chuck."

"Fine," said Chuck regretfully, and then waved his hand imperiously. "She can go back tomorrow."

He twined his arm around Blair's waist, and she smiled, feeling more light-hearted than she had in months.


End file.
